The compleat collected s.., p.176
The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 176
The only possible answer was for the doctors to go into suspended animation also until the time when their patients were due to be revived. However, at least one doctor would have to remain awake to supervise and to continue with some of the more promising lines of research which, if they were lucky, might result in cures for all of their suspended patients. A time-table of twenty years asleep and two awake was suggested, with a three month overlap to allow the newly awakened Doctor to take over the reins. Being the youngest of the group Dr. Hanson asked that his waking term be extended to five years, as he was working on a line which might produce a cure for the heart condition which had forced their previous Director to undergo suspended animation. They must agree that if Dr. Pellew could be cured and revived, his help would be invaluable.
Mention was made of the psychological dangers present in the scheme, and methods suggested for guarding against them, and the report ended with discussion of the staff problem. It was decided to give Cleaners more responsibility and allow the Ward Sisters the right to diagnose, treat and perform limited surgery.
STARING unseeingly at the page, which was the last one, Ross thought, And so endeth the first lesson. For that was what it had been. Unbalanced, overshort, composed of medical charts and instructional circulars, but withal a history lesson designed to help him fit into a strange present.
Something caught in his throat as he thought of those wonderful old men, forced by their short life expectancy to spread out their remaining years to carry the torch of their knowledge across two centuries, in a relay race against time. And young Hanson had been successful, because the circular was dated 2071 and Dr. Pellew had signed one of his 508 forms in 2233.
Suddenly he began to feel the stirrings of hope. A wild, exciting and purely selfish hope. The record had made no reference to nursing staff, but presumably they would have had to go into Deep Sleep also. Suppose one of them was Alice ...
The lights went out.
His brain froze in mid thought and the cold sweat broke on his forehead, hands and at the small of his back. Without knowing why exactly, Ross was terrified. In vain he tried to tell himself that the lights had gone out to let him sleep, that there was nothing frightening about that. But this darkness was absolute, a negation of light which was possible only when all power has gone five miles underground. Ross had left his room door open in the hope that anyone passing would notice and maybe call in; it was just as dark in the corridor. The folder slid to the floor and he lay motionless, his heart banging deafeningly in his ears and teeth jammed together to keep them from chattering.
Then above the relative din of his racing pulse he heard movements from the corridor outside.
It was a soft, regular, thumping sound accompanied by a gentle sighing. Outside his door it stopped, briefly, then grew louder as it entered his room. Ross strained his eyes desperately into the blackness, trying to give shape and substance to the blotchy retinal images which slid about in the darkness. The faint sighing and thumping seemed to be moving about the center of the room, and he could hear some small objects being lifted or laid down, quietly. The sounds were quiet but, somehow, not stealthy. Whoever was making them knew what he was doing, and could see very well in the dark. Undoubtedly they could see him. Any second now they would come over to his bed ...
"Who ... who's there?" said Ross.
"Ward Sister," replied a voice out of the blackness, a pleasant, impersonal and unmistakably feminine voice. "You are doing fine, Mr. Ross. Now go to sleep."
The sounds moved toward the door without approaching his bed and began to fade along the corridor. The door leading onto the ramp slid open and closed, and a few seconds later the lights blinded him.
Ross lay back and shielded his eyes until they became used to the lights again. Four self-heating food containers had been placed beside Beethoven, but otherwise nothing had changed in the room. He pulled the sheets up to his chin and relaxed for the first time since his revivication. Weariness made his mind work slowly, but the mental processes were clear and logical. At last he was beginning to make sense out of the mad puzzle facing him, and the Sister who had visited him in complete darkness was the key incident, he thought.
Beethoven, his case history, a Sister who could see extremely well in pitch-blackness ...
The most urgent problem when Ross had gone into Deep Sleep had been the sharply declining birth-rate, and according to the contents of the folder the problem had worsened steadily. Staff shortage was mentioned on every page. Human life had become a rare and precious thing—so rare, perhaps, and so very precious, that the meaning of the word had widened somewhat. Devoted to the study of non-sterile mutations ... Ross thought. That might explain Sister's extraordinary eyesight, and her visit under a cloak of darkness. They didn't want to shock him, possibly risk driving him insane, by confronting him too suddenly with what the human race had become. That had to be the answer. They were breaking it to him gently, giving information by indirect means, even to the extent of supervising his revivication at a distance.
Ross thought that he was prepared for the shocks now. He probably wouldn't like them, but he wouldn't be terrified or disgusted by them. And if things got tough he could always console himself with the reminder that there were a few real, old-time human beings still in suspended animation. One of them might even be Alice.
The one piece of the puzzle which did not fit his theory was the nightmares. There had been two of them, almost identical, and he still had the conviction that they had occurred after, or at least during, the process of awakening. Thick metal bars pressing down on his head, chest, abdomen and legs. Others crushing his arms into his sides, jamming his legs together, threatening to squeeze in the sides of his skull. Fighting to escape that vicious, inexorable pressure, struggling desperately to see, to move, to breathe. But he could not see, he could only feel and hear; the savage construction of uncaring metal, and an irregular ticking sound ...
Until that gap in the picture was filled, Ross thought, he would feel very uncomfortable about going to sleep. He was uneasily wondering who had introduced an Iron Maiden into the hospital when sleep sneaked up on him.
ROSS AWOKE hungry. His first act was to remedy that condition, and he was lucky in that only one of the four food containers had spoiled. While the air conditioner was dispersing the stench of two-hundred-year-old soup, he moved across to his clothes locker and began to dress. His next action must be to go out and find somebody, the Doctor-in-Charge, Sister, anybody, and while the sight of his unclothed body was unlikely to shock any member of the hospital staff, having a few clothes around him would boost his morale considerably.
He hadn't realized just how few clothes that would be.
His socks and underwear fell apart when he tried to get into them, his blouse had gone brittle and cracked when he forced his head into it, and the elastication in his shoes had ceased to be. The slacks were in good condition—they were all wool and had been rather an extravagance in a day of largely synthetic clothing—but his belt came to pieces in his hands. And his hips had shrunk so much that they refused to hold them up. Ross swore, feeling ridiculous.
One of the other lockers contained the woven plastic sheets, he discovered after a brief search. He opened out one of them and began to work at the middle of it with his teeth until he had a hole that he could get his fingers into. The stuff wasn't easy to tear. When the hole was big enough he put his head through it and let the sheet fall down around his shoulders. It came almost to his knees. Working his arms free he tore one of the pillow coverings into strips, tied one around his waist and made two other bandages which held the shoes onto his feet. In the locker mirror the effect wasn't too bad, he thought, but it needed something. A turban, maybe, or a chaplet of laurel leaves?
Ross made a face at himself, snarled "You look horrible in white," and headed for the corridor.
This time he was able to walk without holding onto the wall. But when he began to ascend the ramp at the end of the corridor, dizziness overtook him and he began to grey out. He realized that he must still be terribly weak and that if he was going to get anywhere at all he would have to take it in easy stages. Climbing slowly, sometimes on hands and knees, Ross ascended to the next level.
He found himself in a long, brightly lit corridor with a T-junction at the other end. Everything in sight was shining, aseptically clean. Matron must be the strict type, he thought, and hoped that he did not encounter her first. But there were no signs of life or movement about and the only sound was that of his own breathing. Ross moved forward and began trying doors.
By the time he reached the intersection he was both bewildered and uneasy. Many of the doors had opened into small wards and rooms like his own. There could have been a good reason for them being dark and unoccupied, but some of them should have contained members of the staff, or at least shown signs of recent use. The diet kitchens, for instance, the power rooms, or the Sisters' and Cleaners' quarters. Those living quarters bothered Ross. He could not say for sure, because he had been seeing only by reflected light from the corridor, but those rooms had seemed to be large, featureless boxes which were completely devoid of furniture, fittings or personal decoration. Yet everything he saw was so clean. Somebody was responsible for the spotless condition of the place, but who and where? The whole thing was ridiculous!
Maybe they were playing hide and seek, Ross thought wildly; if so, he was getting tired of the game, tired of being "it" ...
"Come out, come out!" Ross yelled at the top of his voice, "Wherever you are!"
They came out.
They were long cylindrical objects mounted on four padded wheels, possessing at least ten thick, multi-jointed metal arms and various other projections of unknown function. As they rolled steadily towards him, Ross knew with a terrible certainty that what he was seeing was his nightmare—multiplied by twenty. There was almost a score of the things coming at him from the left-hand fork of the corridor. The lights gleamed off their shiny metal sides and folded arms. He could see that each had a double lens arrangement mounted vertically atop a short, headless neck. The upper lens rotated slowly, the lower was directed forwards. They advanced without a sound. Ross wanted to run, but his brain seemed to have gotten its signals crossed. All he could do was tremble and sweat, until ...
"Our previous instructions were to conceal ourselves until after you had spent some time in Dr. Pellew's room," said a quiet, female voice behind him, "and we were warned that to do otherwise might result in severe psychological disturbance to yourself. The wording of your last order, however, is such that it overrides our previous instructions."
Ross turned around, slowly. The thing behind him was a large, erect ovoid mounted on three wheels and surmounted by one fixed and one swiveling eye-piece. There were no arms but the smooth, egg-like body showed the outlines of several panels which might open to reveal anything. Clamped to one of the wheel struts was a large square box with a cable running from it to the main body. It gave the impression of being stuck on as an afterthought. One of its wheels had a worn tread which emitted a faint sighing sound as it moved towards him. Ross thought of dodging around it and running—or trying to run, he felt almost too weak to stand now—for the ramp, but behind the egg there were more cylinders coming fast.
With his head jerking from side to side Ross watched them roll up to within a yard of him and stop. The rotating lenses turned slowly, the stationary ones were fixed on him.
After several unsuccessful tries Ross made his tongue work. He said, "What ... what is all this?"
The cylinders began to tick like runaway clocks and then the egg spoke again. It said, "The question, requiring as it does complete and detailed knowledge of astronomy, anthropology, cybernetics, evolution, mass psychology, metallurgy, medicine, nuclear physics as well as other sciences about which I have no data, is beyond the scope of an electronic brain. For your information, sir, when asking questions or giving orders to a robot the wording must be detailed and non-ambiguous."
So they were only robots who could answer questions—simple questions—and obey orders. Ross began to relax. His first thought was to tell them all to get to blazes out of his sight, but then he decided that that, also, might be too confusing for them. He considered for a moment, then said timidly, "Go back to whatever you were doing before I called you."
They all began to move away, including the egg-shaped one. Ross called, "Not you. Wait. Your voice is familiar, are you the one who came into my room last night?"
"Yes, sir."
"But I'd thought ... the mutations ..." Ross stammered. "What happened to the mutants?"
"They are dead, sir. The research was discontinued before I was programmed."
Ross shook his head. He had been expecting mutants and had found robots instead. In a way he ought to have expected something like this, because the trend had been well developed even in his time. Full-scale automation spreading from the factories into the homes, guardian-robots for small children, there had even been talk of a robot barber. But in his wildest moments Ross would never have thought of them turning one loose in a hospital. Ross had to check an urge to revise his picture of what had happened while he was in Deep Sleep, because the revision would be based on incomplete data and would probably be as wide of the truth as the last one. Horrible mutations working under a cloak of darkness, indeed! He decided not to jump to any conclusions at all until he had been to Dr. Pellew's quarters.
Matching pace with Ross's weary shuffle the robot led him through a series of short corridors, up another ramp for two levels, then into what appeared to be the administration and maintenance section. Ross was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had had a horde of robots sprung on him without warning only minutes ago, and now he was talking to one of them, almost naturally. Such powers of adaptability, he thought, were something to be proud of.
He kept the conversation simple, of course, and confined mainly to short, direct questions regarding the rooms or machinery they passed. To some of the simple questions the robot gave concise and detailed answers, and occasionally he received a reply of, "I'm sorry, sir, I have not been programmed with data on this subject ..."
At one point Ross broke off to ask, "Why do you keep calling me 'sir' when you know my name?"
The robot ticked quietly to itself for a few seconds, and Ross went over the question again in his mind to see if it might sound ambiguous. It didn't, so he repeated the question aloud.
The ticking slowed and stopped. "A Ward Sister of my type has two choices of behavior towards human beings," the robot said in its pleasant, feminine voice. "Towards patients we are friendly but authoritative, because we are better qualified to know what will and will not benefit them, and surnames prefixed by 'Mr.' are used. When a human being is mobile and shows no marked signs of physical malfunction we treat him as our superior. The choice was difficult in your case."
"Between a mobile Boss and a bedridden patient," said Ross dryly, "and I was a mobile patient."
"As my superior," the robot went on, "you are not required to give reasons for your misuse and damaging of ward bed linen."
Ross began to laugh softly. Sisters were all the same, he thought, even the mechanical ones were inclined to fuss. He was still laughing when they reached Dr. Pellew's room.
It was much smaller than the quarters Pellew had once occupied, but it contained the same chairs, desk and bookcase. The only items missing were Beethoven and the thin, irascible person of Pellew himself. A heavy ledger lay exactly centered on the desk with an empty ashtray on one side and an adjustable calendar on the other. Pellew had been a notoriously untidy man, Ross knew, so this uncharacteristic neatness must be due to the cleaning robots while Pellew was in Deep Sleep. Knowing that the Doctor was not in a position to object, Ross sat at the desk and opened the ledger.
It was a diary, more than half-filled with Pellew's odd, backward-leaning scrawl.
Before he settled down to reading it, the caution of a lowly student who was making free with his superior's holy of holies prompted a question.
"Who is the Doctor-in-Charge at the moment?" Ross asked. "Who's awake, I mean?"
"You, sir," said the robot.
"Me! But ..."
He had been about to say that he wasn't qualified, that another two years of study would elapse before, if he was lucky, he could tack Dr. in front of his name. But there was a staff shortage, so much so that they must have been forced to awaken students to fill in for qualified doctors. The ledger would probably tell him why.
"Have you any instructions, sir?" said the robot.
Ross tried to think like a Doctor in charge. He hemmed a couple of times, then said, "Regarding the patients, none at present. But I'm hungry, will you get me something to eat?"
The robot ticked at him.
"I want food," said Ross, making it simple and non-ambiguous. The robot left.
Chapter Three
THE FIRST six pages of the diary were heavy going, not only because they dealt mainly with details of administration in Pellew's almost unreadable writing, but because they were dated only a few months after Ross had gone into Deep Sleep and so contained no information likely to help in his present situation. He began cheating a little, skipping five, seven, twenty pages ahead.
He read:Communications ceased with Section F two hours ago and we have not been able to raise the others for over a week. For purposes of morale I have suggested that this may be due to broken lines caused by the earth tremors, which have been felt even down here. I have ordered the maintenance robots to slot heavy metal girders across the elevator shaft so as to make it impossible for anyone to take the cage up. There are still a few short-sighted, quixotic fools who want to form a rescue party ...
