Dr. Morgan nodded, his eyes fixed on the quiet face in the upright and humming casket. "This one will do."
"Very good, sir," Phillip said, taking the pen from behind his ear and making a notation. Phillip leaned up and pressed a button on the cryogenic pod. A light above the unit flashed and an automated voice called for the technicians.
“One millionth shopper,” Phillip joked. It was a frequently used one and it moved around more bile in the doctor.
"What kind of schedule are we looking at?" Dr. Morgan asked. He was anxious to get away from his assistant. He wanted to rest and wash the war from his skin.
Phillip looked over the evening schedule and then replied, "The preparations can be made by seven pm. Seven-thirty, at the latest."
“Thank you, sir. You are too kind,” Phillip replied, having a go at gratitude, but both men knew it was an expected practice and gratuity. “I look forward to our breaking bread.”
Dr. Morgan turned to leave. He was ready to lie down on his cot and stare at the cold ceiling for a few hours.
"One second, Dr. Morgan," Phillip called after him. "Will you be requiring anything special?"
Dr. Morgan turned back and shrugged. “How many credits do I have?” he asked Phillip.
It wasn’t bad advice, and Dr. Morgan hadn’t had a decent drink in forever.
The technicians had already descended on the unit and were extracting the muscular specimen. Dr. Morgan studied the body as the workers hauled it out of freeze. He tried to decide what would best suit it.
"Might I recommend a hearty burgundy?" Phillip suggested.
Author Bio