Rama: The Omnibus

by Arthur C. Clarke

  Benjy looked up from the map, counted the three paths leading out of the meadow, and felt a surge of self-confidence. Moments later, however, a gust of wind carried cinders across the meadow and ignited the trees on the southern side. Benjy moved quickly. I must go, he said, again lifting Ellie onto his back.

  He now knew that the main fire was in the northern portion of the map, toward the village of Hakone. Benjy stared again at the paper in his hands. So I must stay on white lines in the bottom part, he thought.

  The young man trundled down the path as another tree exploded in fire far above his head. His sister was over his shoulder, and the lifesaving map was in his right hand. Benjy stopped to look at the map every ten steps, each time verifying that he was still headed in the correct direction. When he finally came to a major trail junction, Benjy placed Ellie gingerly on the ground and traced the white lines on the map with his finger. After a minute he smiled broadly, picked up his sister again, and headed down the trail leading to the village of Positano. Lightning flashed one more time, the thunder boomed, and a drenching shower began to fall on Sherwood Forest.

  7

  Five hours later Benjy was sleeping soundly in his room. Meanwhile, in the center of the colony, the New Eden hospital was a madhouse. Humans and biots were dashing about, gurneys with bodies were standing in the halls, patients were shouting in agony. Nicole was talking on the phone with Kenji Watanabe. "We need every Tiasso in the colony sent here as quickly as possible. Try to replace those that are doing geriatric or infant care with a Garcia, or even an Einstein. Have humans staff the village clinics. The situation is very serious."

  She could barely hear what Kenji was saying above the noise in the hospital. "Bad, really bad," she said in response to his question. "Twenty-seven admitted so far, four dead that we know of. The whole Nara area—that enclave of Japanese-style wood houses that is out behind Vegas, surrounded by the forest—is a disaster. The fire happened too fast. The people panicked."

  "Dr. Wakefield, Dr. Wakefield. Please come to room two-oh-four immediately." Nicole hung up the phone and raced down the hall. She bounded up the stairs to the second floor. The man dying in room 204 was an old friend, a Korean, Kim Lee, who had been Nicole's liaison with the Hakone community during the time that she was provisional governor.

  Mr. Kim had been one of the first to build a new home in Nara. During the fire he had rushed into his burning house to save his seven-year-old son. The son would live, for Mr. Kim had protected him carefully while he had walked through the flames. But Kim Lee himself had suffered third-degree burns over most of his body.

  Nicole passed Dr. Turner in the corridor. "I don't think we can do anything for that friend of yours in room two-oh-four," he said. "I'd like your opinion. Call me down in the emergency room. They just brought in another critical who was trapped in her house."

  Nicole took a deep breath and slowly opened the door to the room. Mr. Kim's wife, a pretty Korean woman in her mid-thirties, was sitting quietly in the comer. Nicole walked over and embraced her. While Nicole was comforting Mrs. Kim, the Tiasso who was monitoring all of Mr. Kim's data brought over a set of charts. The man's condition was indeed hopeless. When Nicole glanced up from her reading, she was surprised to see her daughter Ellie, a large bandage on the right side of her head, standing beside Mr. Kim's bed. Ellie was holding the dying man's hand.

  "Nicole," Mr. Kim said in an agonized whisper as soon as he recognized her. His face was nothing but blackened skin. Even speaking one word was painful. "I want to die," the man said, nodding at his wife in the corner.

  Mrs. Kim stood up and approached Nicole. "My husband wants me to sign the euthanasia papers," she said. "But I am unwilling unless you can tell me that there is absolutely no chance he can ever be happy again." She started to cry but stopped herself.

  Nicole hesitated for a moment. "I cannot tell you that, Mrs. Kim," Nicole said grimly. She glanced back and forth between the burned man and his wife. "What I can tell you is that he will probably die sometime in the next twenty-four hours and will suffer ceaselessly until his death. If a medical miracle occurs and he survives, he'll be seriously disfigured and debilitated for the rest of his life."

  "I want to die now," Mr. Kim repeated with effort.

  Nicole sent the Tiasso for the euthanasia documents. The papers required signatures from the attending physician, the spouse, and the individual himself if, in the opinion of the doctor, he was competent to make his own decisions. While the Tiasso was gone, Nicole motioned to Ellie to meet her out in the hall.

  "What are you doing here?" Nicole said quietly to Ellie when they were out of earshot. "I told you to stay at home and rest. You had a bad concussion."

  "I'm all right, Mother," Ellie said. "Besides, when I heard that Mr. Kim was badly burned, I wanted to do something to help. He was such a good friend back in the early days."

  "He's in terrible shape," Nicole said, shaking her head. "I can't believe he's still alive."

  Ellie reached out and touched her mother on the forearm. "He wants his death to be useful," she said. "Mrs. Kim talked to me about it. I've already sent for Amadou, but I need for you to talk to Dr. Turner."

  Nicole stared at her daughter. "What in the world are you talking about?"

  "Don't you remember Amadou Diaba? Eponine's friend, the Nigerian pharmacist with the Senoufo grandmother. He's the one who caught RV-41 from a blood transfusion… Anyway, Eponine told me that his heart is rapidly deteriorating."

  Nicole was silent for several seconds. She could not believe what she was hearing. "You want me," she said finally, "to ask Dr. Turner to perform a manual heart transplant, right now, in the middle of this crisis?"

  "If he decides now, it can be done later tonight, can't it? Mr. Kim's heart can be kept healthy at least that long."

  "Look, Ellie," Nicole said, "we don't even know—"

  "I already checked," Ellie interrupted. "One of the Tiassos verified that Mr. Kim would be an acceptable donor."

  Nicole shook her head again. "All right, all right," she said. "I'll think about it. Meanwhile, I want you to lie down and rest. A concussion is not a trivial injury."

  "You're asking me to do what?" an incredulous Dr. Robert Turner said to Nicole.

  "Now, Dr. Turner," Amadou said in his British accent, "it is not Dr. Wakefield who is really making the request. It is I. I beseech you to perform this operation. And please do not consider it risky. You have yourself told me that I will not live more than three months longer. I know full well that I may die on the operating table. But if I survive, according to the statistics you showed me, I have a fifty-fifty chance of living eight more years. I could even marry and have a child."

  Dr. Turner spun around and glanced at the clock on his office wall. "Forget for a moment, Mr. Diaba, that it is past midnight and I have been working nine hours straight with burn victims. Consider what you are asking. I have not performed a heart transplant for five years. And I have never ever done one without being supported by the finest cardiological staff and equipment on the planet Earth. All the surgical work, for example, was always done by robots."

  "I understand all that, Dr. Turner. But it is not really germane. I will certainly die without the operation. There will almost certainly not be another donor in the near future. Besides, Ellie told me that you have recently been reviewing all the heart transplant procedures, as part of your work in preparing your budget request for new equipment—"

  Dr. Turner flashed a quizzical look at Ellie. "My mother told me about your thorough preparation, Dr. Turner. I hope you're not upset that I said something to Amadou."

  "I will be pleased to assist you in any way I can," Nicole added. "Although I have never done any heart surgery myself, I did complete my residency at a cardiological institute."

  Dr. Turner looked around the room, first at Ellie, then at Amadou and Nicole. "Then that settles it, I guess. I don't see where you've given me much choice."

  "You'll do it?" Ellie exclai
med with youthful excitement.

  "I will try," the doctor answered. He walked over to Amadou Diaba and extended both his hands. "You do know, don't you, that there is very little chance you will ever wake up?"

  "Yes, sir, Dr. Turner. But very little chance is better than none…I thank you."

  Dr. Turner turned to Nicole. "I'll meet you in my office for a procedure review in fifteen minutes. And by the way, Dr. Wakefield, will you please have a Tiasso bring us a fresh pot of coffee?"

  Preparing for the transplant operation brought back memories that Dr. Robert Turner had buried in the recesses of his mind. Once or twice he even imagined for several seconds that he had actually returned to the Dallas Medical Center. He remembered mostly how happy he had been in those distant days on another world. He had loved his work; he had loved his family. His life had been almost perfect.

  Drs. Turner and Wakefield carefully wrote down the exact sequence of events that they would follow before they began the procedure. Then, during the operation itself, they stopped to check with each other after each major segment was completed. No untoward events occurred at any time during the procedure. When Dr. Turner removed Amadou's old heart, he turned it over so that Nicole and Ellie (she had insisted on staying in case there was anything she could do to help) could see the badly atrophied muscles. The man's heart was a disaster. Amadou would probably have died in less than a month.

  An automatic pump kept the patient's blood circulating while the new heart was "hooked up" to all the principal arteries and veins. This was the most difficult and dangerous phase of the operation. In Dr. Turner's experience, this segment 'had never ever been performed by human hands.

  Dr. Turner's surgical skills had been finely tuned by the many manual operations he had conducted during his three years in New Eden. He surprised even himself with the ease with which he connected the new heart to Amadou's critical blood vessels.

  Toward the end ,of the procedure, when all of the dangerous phases had been completed, Nicole offered to perform the few remaining tasks. But Dr. Turner shook his head. Despite the fact that it was almost dawn in the colony, he was determined to finish the operation himself.

  Was it the extreme fatigue that caused Dr. Turner's eyes to play tricks on him during the final minutes of the operation? Or could it perhaps have been the surge of adrenaline that accompanied his realization that the procedure was going to be successful? Whatever the cause, during the terminal stages of the operation, Robert Turner periodically witnessed remarkable changes in the face of Amadou Diaba. Several times his patient's face slowly altered before his eyes, the features of Amadou becoming those of Carl Tyson, the young black man that Dr. Turner had murdered in Dallas. Once, after finishing a stitch, Dr. Turner glanced up at Amadou and was frightened by Carl Tyson's cocky grin. The doctor blinked, and looked again, but it was only Amadou Diaba on the operating table.

  After this phenomenon had occurred several times, Dr. Turner asked Nicole if she had noticed anything unusual about Amadou's face. "Nothing but his smile," she replied. "I've never seen anyone smile like that under anesthesia."

  When the operation was over and the Tiassos reported that all of the patient's vital signs were excellent, Dr. Turner, Nicole, and Ellie were exultant despite their exhaustion. The doctor invited the two women to join him in his office, for one final celebratory cup of coffee. At that moment, he didn't yet realize that he was going to propose to Ellie.

  Ellie was stunned. She just stared at the doctor. He glanced at Nicole and then returned his gaze to Ellie. "I know it's sudden," Dr. Turner said. "But there's no doubt in my mind. I have seen enough. I love you. I want to marry you. The sooner the better."

  The room was absolutely quiet for almost a minute. During the silence, the doctor walked over to his office door and locked it. He even disconnected his phone. Ellie started to speak. "No," he said to her with passion, "don't say anything yet. There's something else I must do first."

  He sat down in his chair and took a deep breath. "Something that I should have done long ago," he said quietly. "Besides, you both deserve to know the whole truth about me."

  Tears welled up in Dr. Turner's eyes even before he began to tell the story. His voice broke the first time he spoke, but he then collected himself and eased into the narrative.

  "I was thirty-three years old and blindly, outrageously happy. I was already one of the leading cardiac surgeons in America and I had a beautiful, loving wife with two daughters, aged three and two. We lived in a mansion with a swimming pool inside a country club community about forty kilometers north of Dallas, Texas.

  "One night when I came home from the hospital—it was very late, for I had supervised an unusually delicate open heart procedure—I was stopped at the gate of our community by the security guards. They acted rattled, as if they didn't know what to do, but after a phone call and some peculiar glances in my direction, they waved me through.

  "Two police cars and an ambulance were parked in front of my house. Three mobile television vans were scattered in the cul-de-sac just beyond my home. When I started to turn in to my driveway, a policeman stopped me. With flashbulbs popping all around and klieg lights from the television cameras blinding my eyes, the policeman led me into my house.

  "My wife was lying under a sheet on a cot in the main hall beside the stairway to the second floor. Her throat had been slit. I heard some people talking upstairs and raced up to see my daughters. The girls were still lying where they had been killed—Christie on the floor in the bathroom and Amanda in her bed. The bastard had cut their throats as well."

  Huge, desolate sobs wrenched out of Dr. Turner. "I will never forget that horrible sight. Amanda must have been killed in her sleep, for there was no mark on her except for the cut… What kind of human being could kill such innocent creatures?"

  Dr. Turner's tears were cascading down his cheeks. His chest was heaving uncontrollably. For several seconds he did not speak. Ellie quietly came over beside his chair and sat on the floor, holding his hand.

  "The next five months I was totally numb. I could not work, I could not eat. People tried to help me—friends, psychiatrists, other doctors—but I could not function. I simply could not accept that my wife and children had been murdered.

  "The police had a suspect in less than a week. His name was Carl Tyson. He was a young black man, twenty-three years old, who delivered groceries for a nearby supermarket. My wife always used the television for her shopping. Carl Tyson had been to our home several times before—I even remembered having seen him once or twice myself—and certainly knew his way around the house.

  "Despite my daze during that period, I was aware of what was happening in the investigation of Linda's murder. At first, everything seemed so simple. Carl Tyson's fresh fingerprints were found all over the house. He had been inside our community that very afternoon on a delivery. Most of Linda's jewelry was missing, so robbery was the obvious motive. I figured the suspect would be summarily convicted and executed.

  "The issue quickly became clouded. None of the jewelry was ever found. The security guards had marked Carl Tyson's entry and departure from the community on the master log, but he was only inside Greenbriar for twenty-two minutes, hardly enough time for him to deliver groceries and commit a robbery plus three murders. In addition, after a famous attorney decided to defend Tyson and helped him prepare his sworn statements, Tyson insisted that Linda had asked him to move some furniture that afternoon. This was a perfect explanation for the presence of his fingerprints all over the house…"

  Dr. Turner paused, reflecting, the pain obvious in his face. Ellie squeezed his hand gently and he continued.

  "By the time of the trial, the prosecution's argument was that Tyson had brought the groceries to the house in the afternoon and had discovered, after talking with Linda, that I would be in surgery until much later that night. Since my wife was a friendly and trusting woman, it was not unlikely that she might have chatted with the delivery boy and mentioned
that I would not be home until late… Anyway, according to the prosecutor, Tyson returned after he finished his shift at the supermarket. He climbed the rock wall that surrounded the country club development and walked across the golf course. Then he entered the house, intending to steal Linda's jewelry and expecting everyone in the family to be asleep. Apparently my wife confronted him and Tyson panicked, killing first Linda and then the children to ensure that there were no witnesses.

  "Despite the fact that nobody saw Tyson return to our neighborhood, I thought the prosecution's case was extremely persuasive and that the man would be easily convicted. After all, he had no alibi whatsoever for the time period during which the crime was committed. The mud that was found on Tyson's shoes exactly matched the mud in the creek he would have crossed to reach the back side of the house. He did not show up for work for two days after the murders. In addition, when Tyson was arrested, he was carrying a large amount of cash that he said he won in a poker game.

  "During the defense portion of the trial, I really began to have my doubts about the American judicial system. His attorney made the case a racial issue, depicting Carl Tyson as a poor, unfortunate black man who was being railroaded on circumstantial evidence. His lawyer argued emphatically that all Tyson had done on that October day was deliver groceries to my house. Someone else, his attorney said, some unknown maniac, had climbed the Greenbriar fence, stolen the jewelry, and then murdered Linda and the children.

  "The last two days of the trial I became convinced, more from watching the body language of the jury than anything else, that Tyson was going to be acquitted. I went insane with righteous indignation. There was no doubt in my mind that the young man had committed the crime. The thought that he might be set free was intolerable.