"And the patient in bed five is due for a Number Forty," the sister-in-charge added. She had just given Dr. Samuel Flynn her report on the Geriatrics ward at the Royal University Hospital when he had arrived for his rounds.

"A Number Forty?" the doctor replied, glancing absently towards the ten-bed room across the hall, "Factor?"

"Massive cerebral late yesterday. Complete paralysis. Semi-coma. No relatives. Eighty-five." She handed him a slim folder.

Dr. Flynn reviewed the man's records. Tom Prescott had been admitted a week before after suffering a mild stroke. He had been recovering nicely from that when without warning a blood vessel in his brain had burst. Amazingly he had not died, but he was likely to be permanently paralyzed and possibly semi-comatose for the rest of his life. In any case, he would require constant care.

The hospital had tried in vain to contact relatives. It seemed that Mr. Prescott was unattached. He had then been transferred to the list of patients requiring Number Forty treatment.

"Where's Prescott from?" the doctor asked.

"Nobody knows -- seems not to have an address," the sister answered.

"Well, who brought him in, then?"

"Constable Sutton -- he's our local man -- found him on the street. He'd collapsed in front of the post office."

"And his ID card didn't give an address?"

"He didn't have an ID card."

"So how do they know his name?" Dr. Flynn waved the folder about and raised his eyebrows. "It says here he's been amnesic."

"That's not his real name," the sister replied. She tilted her head and looked at him oddly, then nodded. "Of course," she said, "You're new here, you probably haven't been told the system yet. Unidentified patients are given a name to make it easier to refer to them. Records and all that. Tom Prescott was the next name on the list." It appeared a thought occurred to her suddenly, and she frowned. "You are familiar with Number Forty, aren't you, Doctor?"

"Yes, yes," Dr. Flynn said impatiently, "Of course I am. It's standard in all the hospitals now, ever since the Act was passed in July. I've administered it several times. No worries. Is the equipment ready?"

"Yes, it's all set up in the Therapy Room."

"Right. Well, I'll do Mr. Prescott after I've seen the other patients. Is he the only Number Forty? There were usually at least two every day when I did rounds at North Park."

"Just him. We did have two yesterday, names of Netty Masterson and Peter Ortiz."

"What happened to N?"

"N?"

"You gave M, O, and Prescott's P, so what about N?"

"Oh -- I guess we skipped it." The sister laughed. "Never mind, one less name to come up with for the next list!" she exclaimed.

"Who makes up the list?"

"Dr. Westers. He goes round the local cemeteries collecting names. He has lists and lists of first names and surnames, and he chooses one of each at random and pairs them up, then he lists them alphabetically and goes to compare them with the lists at the Registrar's downtown. It's sort of a hobby for him. When we get to U we warn him to prepare the next list."

Dr. Flynn was not entirely comfortable with this idea of playing with people's identities. But what else can they do, after all? he said to himself, It's better than just giving them numbers, like they do at North Park. It's people we're dealing with after all...

"Well, I'd better get on with my rounds," he said, "Is the team ready to go?"

"I'll just call them out."

The nurse went into the staff lounge for a moment and came out followed by two interns and three junior nurses.

"Right. Let's go," Dr. Flynn said, and led the way to the first patient.

"Has Prescott been taken to the Therapy Room?" Dr. Flynn asked the sister-in-charge as he returned to the nurses' station at the end of his rounds.

"Jess is taking him there now," she replied, pointing with her chin towards an orderly wheeling a bed down the corridor.

Dr. Flynn was writing notes in his patients' folders when the orderly came back from his errand.

"All done, Sister," he said, and handed over the key to the Therapy Room, "and I remembered to put on the brakes this time, too!"

"Good for you, Jess," Sister said, smiling good-naturedly as if to a child.

The orderly shuffled away to his cubicle and the sister turned to Dr. Flynn.

"You'll be needing this," she said, handing him the key, "He's all ready."

"Ah," Dr. Flynn muttered, not looking up but taking the key. He wrote something rapidly in the last folder, then tossed folder and pen onto the pile on the desk. "There you are," he said, "That's that lot taken care of. Make sure they get their medications on time, won't you?"

"I'll do my best, Doctor," the sister answered grimly, "We're still under-staffed, you know."

"I know. All hospitals are under-staffed. Not enough funds. In the meantime the politicos vote themselves another raise..."

"I wish they'd raise the standards of health care instead!"

"You and I can do little about it except wish, Sister, so I think we might as well do what we can and just get on with our jobs."

"I guess you're right."

"And right now my job is Mr. Tom Prescott's Number Forty. Tell one of your nurses to give me a hand, Sister. See you later."

Dr. Flynn straightened his jacket and made his way down towards the Therapy Room. He had almost reached the door when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. He turned to look up the hall and saw that one of the staff nurses was hurrying towards him.

"You my assistant?" he asked, smiling. Nice of Sister to send a pretty one, he thought.

"Yes, Doctor," the young woman answered in a business-like tone, "I'm experienced. Sister prefers to send those of us with several Number Forty's under our belts to help the new doctors."

"Good," Flynn said as he inserted the key into the lock and opened the door to the Therapy Room.

He was slightly taken aback by the room. It wasn't much like the one at North Park. That had been somewhat austere and had a no-nonsense look to it. This room looked more like someone's bedroom at home than like a hospital treatment room. Only the trolley-table carrying the medical equipment, and the hospital bed, reminded one that this was indeed a room in a hospital. And the very sick patient in the bed, of course.

The walls were hung with bright but tasteful floral wallpaper. The window was hidden by floor-length curtains which contrasted softly with the wallcovering, and a painting of a peaceful country scene decorated one wall. Soft music played over a speaker in the ceiling, and the room was illuminated by warm incandescents rather than the fluorescents found in the rest of the building.

"This is a surprise," he commented to the nurse. For some odd reason he felt he should whisper.

"What's surprising about it?" the nurse asked in an ordinary tone of voice. She was obviously used to the room.

"The decor, the music," he replied, still whispering, and somewhat disconcerted by the woman's manner.

"Oh, they think it helps," she said, sounding annoyed, "Supposed to relax them, or something. Waste of good money, if you ask me."

"Oh."

"Well, Doctor, if you don't mind my reminding you, I haven't got all day, you know. Other patients are waiting."

"Oh, yes," Dr. Flynn replied, going over to the trolley-table and examining the items on it, "I'm sorry, yes, better get on with it. Good. Everything's here. Let's see the patient."

He walked over to the bed and looked down at the old man lying there. He certainly did not look well. His face was grey, his closed eyes sunken, and his thin lips dry. His skin was very wrinkled and stretched loosely along his thin arms and claw-like hands.

Hmm. Not terribly well-fed, was he? Dr. Flynn thought. He automatically felt for the man's pulse, and noticed his eyelids flutter.

"You don't need to take his pulse," the nurse hissed at his elbow.

Dr. Flynn threw her a cold glance.

"I'll do what I think necessary, Nurse," he said tersely, "You are here to assist, not direct."

The woman looked at him angrily, but didn't answer. She stood next to him sullenly, waiting.

He turned back to the patient, and looked again at his face. It had struck him, that face. Why? He'd seen hundreds of old men and women since he had become a specialist in Geriatrics. After a while, they all looked the same to him -- wrinkled faces, balding heads, rheumy eyes, trembling mouths. And they all had the same problems, and sometimes he got so tired of them he toyed with the idea of switching to paediatrics, or gynaecology, or even pathology, maybe. No, not pathology, with its post-mortems -- that'd mean more old people, even if they were dead. But the thought of going back to studying, to lectures, to outpatients', to residency... No, might as well stay with the oldies. At least it was a job with a good salary -- and the occasional bequest from a grateful patient.

What was it about Tom Prescott -- he wondered what his real name was -- that had caught his attention? The man's face. Something about it. What? Dr. Flynn was puzzling about it when the nurse tapped him on the arm.

"Doctor, I have to remind you again that I have work to do!" she said brusquely.

Sam Flynn made an uncharacteristic spur-of the-moment decision. He would later say it was the nurse's impatience that had prompted him to do so.

"Nurse, please go and tell Sister to come here immediately," he ordered.

She looked at him in amazement which quickly changed to apprehension as she thought that he meant to give her a bad report.

"I'm-I'm sorry, D-Doctor," she stammered, "I-I d-didn't mean--"

"Get Sister," he said tersely.

She hurried out of the room, glancing anxiously over her shoulder at him as she went out the door.

He turned his attention back to the man in the bed -- the man called Tom Prescott -- and was startled to find that his eyes were open and he was looking at him. He was even more startled to find that he now knew why Tom Prescott's face had troubled him. The old man's deep brown eyes were very familiar to Sam Flynn. Where had they been all these years?

The nurse came back with the sister-in-charge, who came over to the bed and looked questioningly at him.

"What's the problem, Doctor?" she asked.

Dr. Flynn sighed.

"Mr. Prescott isn't ready for Number Forty, Sister," he was surprised to hear himself say, "Please take him back to the ward."

"What?" the sister exclaimed, "but Dr. Hendricks and Dr. Clarkson signed all the papers last night, after examining him, Doctor! They said he had to have it!"

"He's not ready. In fact, if you have a private room available, I want you to put him in that. I'll take care of the bureaucracy, Sister."

"Yes, Doctor," the woman replied uncertainly, and told the nurse to fetch the orderly. "Room Four is empty, Doctor," she added, "Shall I put him in there?"

"Yes, fine," he answered vaguely, then more certainly, "Yes, yes, put him in that room. Make him comfortable. Also, I need to make a call." He paused to think. "I'll use the phone in Room Four," he said finally.

Without further comment he walked out of the room. The sister-in-charge glanced at the old man in the bed. His eyes were closed, but he seemed to be... smiling?

Jess the orderly wheeled the bed from the Therapy Room to Room Four. Dr. Flynn was already there, about to use the telephone on the locker by the bed. He smiled at Jess as the man pushed the bed up to the wall.

"Thanks, Jess," he said, "I gather that's your name?"

"Yessir," the orderly replied, straightening up importantly, "Oh! I mustn't forget the brakes!" He bent down to push the brakes down on the wheels of the bed.

"How long have you been working here, Jess?"

"Oh, I dunno, Sir, a longish time. Since I left school."

"I hear you do a good job. Keep it up."

"Thank you, Sir, I'll do that." And he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Dr. Flynn went over to the bed. His patient had his eyes open again.

"Hullo, old man," the doctor said softly, "How on earth did you end up as Tom Prescott?"

The man just looked at him. He couldn't speak, of course. That's what a massive cerebral did to one. But his eyes spoke. Yes, he knew Sam Flynn.

"This is a bit of a shock, you know," Sam said with a wry grin, "I was about to give you a Number Forty when I recognised you. I couldn't do it, then."

The man blinked slowly. Did he know what a Number Forty was? Maybe not. He'd been away from it for so long. When had he disappeared? Ten, fifteen years ago? Eighty-five, Sister had said. No, not eighty-five, more like seventy. They could only have guessed after all, from his condition and his blood tests.

The sister-in-charge came into the room.

"The new shift is coming on, Doctor," she announced, "What shall I tell them about Mr. Prescott?"

"What I told you. He's not ready for Number Forty."

"You do realise, don't you, Doctor, that from now on his health care is not covered by the government?"

"I know. I'll deal with that, Sister. Don't you worry about it."

"I wasn't about to. I figured it was your problem. And you can do the explaining to Ed Clarkson and Janet Hendricks, too."

"I will," Sam replied irritably, "Good evening, Sister."

The sister left and Dr. Flynn was once again alone with his patient. He drew a chair up to the bed, but before sitting down he checked the man's IV.

"Fine," he muttered, and sat down.

"I guess this is the end of my career" he said out loud to himself.

Was it his imagination or had the old man lifted an eyebrow?

"You're surprised?" he said to the man, "I suppose you don't know what a Number Forty is, do you? But I expect you can guess what happens if you refuse to administer it..." He sighed and leant back on the chair, crossing his arms. "I wonder where you've been all these years? They couldn't find you when you disappeared. How do you think we felt, having you leave us young medicos in the lurch like that?" He smiled wryly. "You lost your job, your position, because you refused to perform a third-trimester. After all the hundreds -- thousands? -- of terminations you'd carried out before! Suddenly it was different. Suddenly you called it murder. You said every human life is precious. For some reason you'd changed your mind. Something must have happened to make you do that -- to make you so sure about it, too! They said it was your duty and if you still refused to do it, you could leave. So you left. We all assumed you'd killed yourself. Anyway, the police couldn't find any trace of you. Where on earth did you go? I guess we'll never know -- there's no way you can tell us now. But you've been through the wars, haven't you?"

Again the old man blinked slowly. Was it in answer to his question? Sam sighed again. If only the old man could talk... He glanced at his watch.

"I'll have to go, I'm afraid. I was going to ring Audrey and tell her I'd be late home, but it's our anniversary and it wouldn't be fair to her. Not after I missed her birthday! But I'll be back in the morning, first thing. To hand in my resignation, you know. Better than being asked to leave... There's no way I could do another Number Forty now. When it was a stranger, that was different. The Act made it all nice and straightforward... But you wouldn't know about the Act -- that was only last July. But now -- no, I couldn't do it. Specially not after you obviously knew who I was. Do you know why they call it Number Forty? All the special treatments have numbers these days. Ever heard of forty winks?"

He sighed deeply and stood up.

"I'll see you in the morning," he said, "Don't worry, I'll look after you. You looked after me once -- it's my turn to look after you. I'll lose my position here, but that doesn't matter, does it? This is more important. Someone's got to take a stand. It might as well be me."

He patted the old man's hand, remembered that he probably couldn't feel that and patted his cheek instead, and swallowed hard when he saw the tear in the corner of the man's eye. Then he left the room and went to the nurse's station.

"Please ensure that Professor Smith's IV is checked regularly and replaced when it runs out, and that he is kept comfortable," he said to the sister-in-charge of the new shift.

"Whose IV?" the sister asked, reaching towards the pile of folders without looking at him.

"Uh, Mr. Prescott's," Sam replied, "In Room Four."

"All right, Doctor," she said, looking up at him, "and are you the doctor in charge of him? You're new here, aren't you?"

"Yes," he answered, "To both questions. Sam Flynn's the name. I'll be in first thing to see him."

"All right, Doctor Flynn. We'll keep an eye on your patient. Goodnight."

At first light, and despite having been out late celebrating five years of marriage, Sam Flynn was back in Geriatrics. He stopped at the nurses' station before heading to Room Four.

"How's Prof-- I mean, Mr. Prescott?" he asked the nurse there.

"Mr. Prescott?" she asked, her eyes wide, "Oh -- are you Dr. Flynn?"

"Yes, that's me. How is he?"

Instead of answering, the nurse got up abruptly and went off to the staff lounge, coming back almost immediately with the sister-in-charge. She left the sister with Dr. Flynn and hurried into the sterilizer room. Sam was bewildered.

"Dr. Flynn?" the sister said, "I'm afraid your patient died last night. He had another cerebral and this time it was fatal..."

"Oh," Sam said softly, "What time was that?"

"Around two in the morning. They took him to the morgue at three."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry, Doctor," she said, not really sounding it, then added briskly, "Well, I must go back to my work. Excuse me." She returned to the staff lounge, closing the door behind her.

The nurse came out of the sterilizer room, her eyes red, her face pale. Sam watched her without seeing her. He didn't know what he was thinking. There was a large lump somewhere inside him that felt like it would burst him open. He'd only just found Professor Smith and already he'd lost him again. And this time it was for good...

The nurse tapped him lightly on the arm and without saying a word she pointed to a folder she had placed on the counter. It was Tom Prescott's records. She motioned for him to open it, and he picked it up and did so, turning to the last page, the report of the night staff. As he read it she slipped away.

[First published in The Briefing, No.170/171, 5 December 1995 (Sydney: Matthias Media)]