Post by The Master on Oct 4, 2011 20:15:21 GMT -5
Simon shrugged. "If you're sure. Come on in, then." He stepped aside and held open the tent flap.
The tent was large, large enough for four camp beds, a cloth screen for privacy, and an examining table. One of the cots was occupied by a blanket-draped figure, and a youngish man - no more than thirty or thirty-five, with a Roman nose and a thin face, wearing a shabby tweed jacket - sat by it, scribbling at something on a clipboard.
"Constantin?" Simon called, "This is Ms. Sarah Jane Smith."
Constantin rose as she stepped into the tent. "The journalist?" he asked, in clear (if accented) English.
"The same." Simon looked at Sarah. "Sarah? This is Dr. Constantin Boroi."
"A pleasure," said Constantin, tucking his clipboard under his arm and offering to shake hands, "It is a pity you could not have come at a happier time. I fear I was filling out a coroner's report."
"She, ah, asked if she could view Petru's remains."
"Really? An odd request, but I can oblige. If you're certain..." Seeing that she was, he pulled the blanket aside.
Petru had been a large man, thick and stocky and obviously accustomed to hard labor. His hair was thin and iron grey, and his head twisted at an odd angle. His torso was flattened, the skin and muscle torn away to reveal portions of the anatomy better concealed, and clots of dirt stuck to the flesh.
"A pity," Constantin said, "I had recommended that he take a few days off to recover - he came to me complaining of difficulty sleeping, and dizziness, and I prescribed rest. But he told me that he had never been sick in his life, and he did not intend to be sick now just because he was old. And now look at him." He shook his head, sadly. "I suppose he will rest, now, at least."
The tent was large, large enough for four camp beds, a cloth screen for privacy, and an examining table. One of the cots was occupied by a blanket-draped figure, and a youngish man - no more than thirty or thirty-five, with a Roman nose and a thin face, wearing a shabby tweed jacket - sat by it, scribbling at something on a clipboard.
"Constantin?" Simon called, "This is Ms. Sarah Jane Smith."
Constantin rose as she stepped into the tent. "The journalist?" he asked, in clear (if accented) English.
"The same." Simon looked at Sarah. "Sarah? This is Dr. Constantin Boroi."
"A pleasure," said Constantin, tucking his clipboard under his arm and offering to shake hands, "It is a pity you could not have come at a happier time. I fear I was filling out a coroner's report."
"She, ah, asked if she could view Petru's remains."
"Really? An odd request, but I can oblige. If you're certain..." Seeing that she was, he pulled the blanket aside.
Petru had been a large man, thick and stocky and obviously accustomed to hard labor. His hair was thin and iron grey, and his head twisted at an odd angle. His torso was flattened, the skin and muscle torn away to reveal portions of the anatomy better concealed, and clots of dirt stuck to the flesh.
"A pity," Constantin said, "I had recommended that he take a few days off to recover - he came to me complaining of difficulty sleeping, and dizziness, and I prescribed rest. But he told me that he had never been sick in his life, and he did not intend to be sick now just because he was old. And now look at him." He shook his head, sadly. "I suppose he will rest, now, at least."