CHAPTER 16

 

 

As from a vast distance, Carmody heard a voice say: ‘What do you think, Doctor? Can you do anything for him?’

He recognized that voice; it was the Prize.

‘I’ll pay for it,’ another voice said. He recognized this as Maudsley. ‘Do you think you can do anything for him?’

‘He can be saved,’ said a third voice, presumably that of the doctor. ‘Medical science admits no limits to the feasible, only to the tolerable, which is the patient’s limitation, not ours.’

Carmody struggled to open his eyes or his mouth, but found that he was completely immobilized.

‘So it’s serious, huh?’ asked the Prize.

‘That is a difficult question to answer with precision,’ the doctor said. ‘To begin with, we must assign categories. Medical science is easier than medical ethics, for example. We of the Galactic Medical Association are supposed to preserve life; we are also supposed to act in the best interests of the particular form we treat. But what should we do when these two imperatives are in contradiction? The Uiichi of Devin V, for example, seek a physician’s aid to cure them of life and help them achieve their desired goal of death. It is a damnably difficult task, let me say, and only possible when an Uiichi has grown old and enfeebled, But what does ethics have to say about this strange reversal of normal desire? Are we to do as the Uiichi desire, and perform acts which are reprehensible in nearly every corner of the galaxy? Or are we to act upon the basis of our own standards, and thus doom the Uiichi to a fate quite literally worse than death?’

‘What has this got to do with Carmody?’ Maudsley asked.

‘Not very much,’ the doctor admitted. ‘But I thought you might find it interesting, and it will help you see why we must charge the high fees we do.’

‘Is he in a serious condition?’ the Prize demanded.

‘Only the dead can be said to be in a really serious condition,’ the doctor stated. ‘And even then, there are exceptions. Pentathanaluna, for example, which laymen refer to as Five-Day Reversible Death, is really no worse than a common cold, despite vulgar rumours to the contrary.’

‘But what about Carmody?’ Maudsley asked.

‘He is definitely not dead,’ the doctor said soothingly. ‘He is merely in a state of – or tantamount to – deep shock. To put it more simply, he has, in a manner of speaking, fainted.’

‘Can you pull him out of it?’ the Prize asked.

‘Your terms are unclear,’ the Doctor said. ‘My work is difficult enough without –’

‘I mean, can you restore him to his original state of function?’ the Prize asked.

‘Well! That is rather a large order, as I think you will admit if you give it a moment’s thought. What was his original state of function? Does either of you know? Would he know himself if, miraculously, he could be consulted in his own cure? Of the million subtle alterations of personality, some of which take place at the mere instigation of a heartbeat, how can we know which was most characteristically his? Is not a lost personality like a lost second – something we can approximate but never truly reproduce? These, gentlemen, are questions of some weight.’

‘Damnably heavy,’ Maudsley said. ‘Suppose you just get him as near to what he was as you can. Will that be very tough?’

‘Not on me,’ the doctor said. ‘I have worked for a considerable time in my profession. I have become inured to the most ghastly sights, accustomed to the most hideous procedures. That is not to say that I have grown callous, of course; I have merely learned through sad necessity to direct my attention away from the soul-searing procedures which my profession demands of me.’

‘Cripes, Doc!’ the Prize said. ‘What do you gotta do to my buddy?’

‘I must operate,’ the doctor said. ‘It is the only reliable way. I shall dissect Carmody (speaking in layman’s terms) and put his limbs and organs into a preserving solution. Then, I shall soften him in a dilute solution of K-5. I will draw his brain and nervous system out through various orifices. The procedure then is to hook up the nervous system and brain to a Life-Simulator, and fire the synapses in carefully timed series. Thus we see if there are any breaks, bad valves, stoppages, and the like. Assuming the absence of these, we disassemble the brain, coming at last to the interaction point between mind and body. Removing this very carefully, we check all internal and external connections. If everything is all right up to this point, we open the interaction-point reservoir, looking for leaks, of course, and then checking the level of consciousness within. If it is low or depleted (and in cases like these, it almost always is) we analyse the residue and create a new batch. This new batch of consciousness is tested exhaustively, then injected into the interaction- point reservoir. All parts of the corpus are then reassembled, and the patient can be reanimated with the Life-Simulator. That’s pretty much the whole process.’

‘Hooee,’ said the Prize. ‘I wouldn’t treat a dog that way!’

‘Nor would I,’ the doctor said. ‘Not until the canine race has evolved further. Do you wish me to perform this operation?’

‘Well …’ The Prize mused. ‘I guess we can’t just leave him lying around unconscious, can we?’

‘Of course we can’t,’ Maudsley said. ‘The poor fellow has been counting on us and we must not fail him. Doctor, do your duty!’

Carmody had been struggling with his malfunctioning functions through this entire conversation. He had listened with steadily mounting terror and with the growing conviction that his friends could do him more harm than his enemies could even imagine. Now, with a titanic effort, he burst open his eyes and wrenched his tongue away from the roof of his mouth.

‘No operation!’ he croaked. ‘I’ll cut your goddamned heart out if you try any goddamned operation!’

‘He has recovered his faculties,’ the doctor said, sounding quite pleased. ‘Often, you know, a verbalization of our operating procedure in the patient’s presence serves as a better anodyne than the operation itself. It is a placebo effect, of course, but certainly not to be sneered at.’

Carmody struggled to stand up, and Maudsley helped him to his feet. He looked at the doctor for the first time, and saw a tall, thin, mournful man in black clothes, who looked exactly like Abraham Lincoln. The Prize was no longer a cauldron. Evidently under the stress, he had, changed into a dwarf.

‘Send for me if you need me,’ the doctor said, and departed.

‘What happened?’ Carmody asked. ‘That spaceship, those people –’

‘We pulled you out just in time,’ the Prize said. ‘But that was no spaceship, keed.’

‘I know. What was it?’

‘That,’ Maudsley said, ‘was your predator. You walked right into his mouth.’

‘I guess I did at that,’ Carmody said.

‘And by doing that, you may have lost your only chance of getting back to Earth,’ Maudsley said. ‘I think you’d better sit down, Carmody. You have only a few choices now, and none of them is particularly enticing.’

Carmody sat down.