As she carried a tray between rows of empty tables, she saw Vic Demorino, still in the glareless green jacket of the operating room. "Hello, Vic. I didn't know you were in." He did not rise, only nodded tiredly as she set her tray down. "I'm having a run like a bank in a market crash. The drugstores must be clean out of castor oil. Every unprintable pregnant female in Albany, Troy and Schenectady must have decided to give birth. The astrology magazines must have told them it's a lucky day. Do you know how many little squallers I've delivered since two AM? Go on, make a guess!" "Three?" "Oh, hell, girl, I delivered three before I got breakfast, including one classic breech. Seven's the score so far, and another coming on. Sister Gabrielle was parking them in the elevator. The fifth and sixth came on almost simultaneously, and DiLuccio was having a bad time, so Quentin took over the sixth for me, and by the time I got through, went to check on the little details, Mrs.
