Cherisa sighed again and looked up. "Mr. Huxley, O'Shaunnesey, I mean Dr. Jackowitz," (She had been cautioned never to use his real name in public for security reasons.) She continued, "Dr. Jackowitz was in the lab preparing to be videotaped for the experiment when suddenly he clutched his chest and collapsed. I think he had a heart attack!"
Pat removed his hand from behind Cherisa's neck. His hand instantly became clammy.
"A heart attack? Are you sure?"
The paramedic who had been standing to the side admiring Cherisa stepped forward.
“He had a massive heart attack, sir. Are you a relative?"
"No," Pat replied. "He works for my organization."
Cherisa added, "he's my boss. The one I told you about."
Pat interjected, turning toward the paramedic, "what are his chances?"
Pat was becoming faint. What little color he had remaining was quickly fading out of his cheeks as he dwelt on the term "massive" and considered what this might mean to his project.
The paramedic stoically answered, "not very good I'm afraid."
"Can we ...see him?" Pat asked.
"Follow me."
Pat followed the paramedic into the CCU. He passed the nurses' station and stared at the bank of monitors hung on the wall behind the low white formica desk. Each of the monitors had a nameplate underneath it, and the pulse lines each registered simultaneously danced from left to right. Some lines had high spikes. Others were rhythmically lower. Oddly enough, most of the nurses on duty were seated around the front desks chatting and drinking coffee with their backs to the monitors. Pat thought this strange and approached the desk.
Pat picked out a particularly attractive young nurse to ask his question. She was busy doing a crossword puzzle and instead of sipping coffee like the others, was drinking a diet coke.
"How come no one's monitoring the screens?" he asked.
Without looking up she continued her puzzle and replied, "the monitors are set up so that if the vital sign such as heart rate, show any dramatic changes, they'll beep and that's how we keep track." She seemed a little annoyed at the question. She then looked sternly up at him and spoke to him in a voice that reminded him of a grade school teacher chastising a disobedient child. "Visiting hours aren't for another five minutes and then only immediate family can go in for five minutes at a time. Who are you here to see?"
"Mr. O’Shaunnesey"...Pat stammered...."I mean Dr. Jackowitz."
Before the nurse could say another word, a loud beep sounded off from behind her. Three of the nurses immediately turned their attention to the bank of monitors.
O’Shaunnesey's screen showed a straight horizontal line!
Pat's stomach turned as he stared up at the screen.
The three nurses bolted out from behind the desk and ran to the right side of the room, passing behind a curtain, behind which lay O’Shaunnesey.
In three or four seconds the first nurse ran back behind the desk and picked up the phone.
Pat heard the crackle of the speaker overhead.
"Code Blue! Code Blue! CCU Bed 7. Dr. Granger, report to CCU! Code Blue!"
Pat froze. Cherisa moved forward and grabbed his arm. They both stood motionless without saying a word for what seemed an eternity as they watched the monitor.
Finally, a doctor rushed in and the nurse who made the announcement followed him to O’Shaunnesey's bed. Pat could hear the electro-mechanical thump the defibrillator made as they tried to save O’Shaunnesey. He also could see the curtain move as the nursing staff moved back and forth around the bed. The activity continued for another two minute, but suddenly the curtains fell silent and the nurses filed out one by one. They didn't seem to be in quite the hurry they were only moments before.
Pat overheard the doctor. "Mark the time of death at 1:38 p.m."
The nurse complied and wrote on her chart.
Cherisa squeezed Pat's arm again and then burst into tears.
"I'm sorry Mr. Huxley. I'm sorry. We hurried as fast as we could."
Pat didn't know what to say. All he could think about was what little time he had to find a replacement for O’Shaunnesey. Cherisa must have known what he was thinking, for she drew closer to him and patted his hand as she slowly led him toward the elevators As they were passing through the emergency room, he failed to notice the team of physicians trying to revive the old man he had spoken to earlier. He had too many other things on his mind.
CHAPTER 8
Pat left the hospital and drove home. He had purposefully taken the long way to think and chose his course where the road wound its way around the Potomac River. As he drove, he caught glimpses of its muddy brown waters as they meandered slowly by, passing quietly under the stone arched bridges which crossed the river in several places. The trees which lined its banks were brittle and lifeless, having lost their leaves weeks before in the first frost that had hit the east roast. The sky had turned cloudy, and a gloomy overcast dimmed the afternoon light putting a solemn glaze on everything Pat could see, adding to his already dark mood.
Pat thought that by taking the long way home he would be better able to gather his thoughts and to give himself time to assess the situation which had gone from bad to worse to almost hopeless in little more than four hours since the hearings. He was hoping the time spent alone in the car would produce some answers. As it was, with each additional mile he drove, he only sank deeper and deeper into depression. The depression hung over him like a heavy blanket, slowing his moves and muffling the sound of his tires on the pavement. It was as if he were lost in a deep, choking fog, wandering aimlessly to find his way out.
In an hour and a half, Pat finally turned his car into his driveway. The drive hadn't produced the desired results and Pat felt hopeless as he entered the house. The time was 4:30 p.m. and it was beginning to get dark.
He stepped inside and flicked on a hall light. The house was quiet. It would be another hour before Sarah returned home with Alice,their twelve year old daughter. He was glad the house was empty. At least he would have time to continue to think-about the problem before him without distraction. He could use the quiet time. Maybe the familiar surroundings of his house would bring an answer to mind where the drive had failed.
Pat looked around the room and at the pictures hung by the fireplace. A reprint of an Escher caught his eye first. The picture entitled "Hand with reflecting Globe" was given to him by Sarah three years ago as a Christmas present. It showed, in finely penned black and white, an outstretched hand holding a glass globe. The reflection in the globe was that of Escher himself, a gaunt individual with deep set piercing eyes, framing a rather long straight nose which lead to a bearded, what appeared to be, troubled face. The artist must have boon in his early forties when he sketched the picture and his hair was neatly combed from left to right over his high smooth forehead which showed no wrinkles whatsoever. The reflection was distorted and Escher's arm holding the globe seemed to extend for feet, but Escher's face, being located exactly in the center of the globe, was distorted only minimally. The room in which he was seated, appeared to have been his living room and the image penned was elongated and wrapped around the artist who was seated in a chair, his back to a window. This picture clearly demonstrated the uncanny sense of proportion, time and space that Esther had. The distortion produced by the globe was perfectly illustrated, lending a sense of depth to the two dimensional print as the bookcase shown in the picture curved upward and then vanished into the edge of the globe.
Pat loved this print and often spent hours on end studying it. The dimensionality that Escher was able to capture on canvas helped Pat see things, not as they were, but how they should be. The picture unconsciously represented the spirit of SIGMA ONE to him -- the globe representing the world; the crystal clarity of the face reflected, representing the perfection which mankind could achieve were it not for the distorted effects on society which the threat of nuclear war placed. This threat could shatter the earth like a hammer could
shatter the globe held in the artist's hand into a million pieces at the blink of an eye. Pat often felt that this undertone of society was partially responsible for many of the troubles the world was experiencing with its youth. The devil-may-care attitude they demonstrated by their overindulgence in drugs, free sex, and crime were to Pat, merely unverbalized statements of an attitude that "if we're not going to be here tomorrow, why not live for today." That was one of the reasons for Pat's stubborn pursuit of SIGMA ONE: to give his daughter a chance to grow up without that constantly lurking threat.
Pat continued to stare at the painting and then moved his eyes to the ebony, baby grand piano nestled in the corner of the living room. Sheet music was strewn on the bench indicating-Sarah had practiced earlier. Except for her untidiness, which Pat had learned to accept, Sarah was the perfect wife and Alice the perfect daughter.
Now the sight of the sheet music and the recollection of the lightness of Sarah's touch on the keys of the piano when she played Chopin's Polonaise, ripped at his heart. All this would be gone if he couldn't devise a means of making SIGMA ONE work. If he didn't succeed, they would probably have to sell the piano and the house. He also knew he would probably have a hard time finding a job that would pay as nicely as that at the NSF.
He felt as if the world were closing in on him as he pondered the outcome of failure to give the committee the evidence they needed and closed his eyes to rest.
CHAPTER 9
Debbie Andrews sat at the table in the Cal. Poly University Student Union cafeteria and stared at the clock which read 11:45. The cafeteria was starting to fill as students filed in from the beautiful campus and gathered in clutches eagerly pulling out their text books to compare answers they had given on their 1-Psts to what the books said, each hoping their answer was the correct one. Most of the students who came in had deep circles under their eyes and looked undernourished. Most were dressed in jeans and tee-shirts which needed laundering. Each tee-shirt depicted its owner's hidden desire to identify with the multi-colored messages they displayed: Ski Mammoth Mountain, Dive Cozumel's Beautiful Palancar Reef, I got Sloshed at Hussong's Cantina. All the messages indicated there was life after college and midterms. All the students related to that life. Each had a desire to be anywhere else but school.
Debbie ignored all of this. Instead, she sat alone and stared out the huge picture windows which faced the rolling hills of San Louis Obispo County. The hills were now brown from the lack of rain but still looked peaceful and pleasant. It was October, nearly November and in a little over three weeks she would head North up the road thirteen miles to Morro Bay to spend Thanksgiving with her mom and stepfather in their two story house east off highway 101 which had a similar panoramic view of the California coastline. Her younger sister, Stacy, and she would fight for the bathroom in the morning and her mother would probably be out in the kitchen making the traditional turkey dressing when she finally would wake up on Thanksgiving Day.
None of that seemed important now. All Debbie wanted was for the clock to hurry up and reach twelve o'clock and for Burt to get to the cafeteria so he could explain what had happened to him in his dorm room over the weekend. Debbie was concerned for him for what she had witnessed earlier on the video tape was frightening.
She continued counting the minutes and waited as she stared out the at California coastal mountains. Soon her view was blocked as one student standing at the window began to point South and motioned to a group of friends to join him at the window. One by one they gathered and each in succession began to stare up into the sky as he did.
Curiosity got the best of her so she got up and walked to the window to see what was so interesting. Up in the clear blue late morning sky she could see a trail of white smoke arching upward from the direction of Vandenberg Air Force Base, home of the Western Test Range where the Air Force test launched its missiles.
"Look," the first student stated, "they had a launch!"
"Yeah, pretty cool, huh," the girl at his side added.
"When I get outta here, I'm gonna apply at Cal Tech in Pasadena and get my master's in aero and then go to work for NASA," the boy commented, marveling at the Minuteman vapor trail.
"You've got to get your B.S. first," his friend reminded teasingly.
"Oh,yeah! What did you make on your Calculus Test. I got an 85!"
"I got a 90!" she said proudly.
Debbie took one last look at the rocket plume, left the debate, and returned to her chain She wondered what she and Burt would be doing after graduation. He was into computers, but she didn't have a clue what he wanted to do when he left school. They had avoided that kind of discussion and were still in the getting-to-know-one-another phase of their relationship even though they had been dating on and off for nearly three years.
She had been cautioned by her mother the last time she and Burt were at their home together that they shouldn't take things too fast. Her mother liked Burt and constantly told Debbie what a nice boy he was. She also gave her advice on the best way to snare him, telling her that a man doesn't like to be pressured. She said that's the way she got Debbie's natural father and her current husband. She also reminded Debbie that a man likes to be catered to, and although it was against Debbie's nature to cater to anyone, she took her mother's advice and for the time being was doing everything she could to let Burt know she loved him -without putting the slightest bit of pressure on him to talk about the future. It must have worked, for their relationship had grown even stronger in the last nine months since she began to practice what her mother had taught her.
It was, however, becoming more and more difficult for her not to think about the future as they approached the last year and a half of college and she often found herself thinking more and more what it would be like to be married to him. She was majoring in home economics and had a much prier class load than he and as a result had more free time to herself. This resulted, as is oftentimes the case when one in a relationship has more idle time than the other, in her spending more and more time thinking about him than he did her. And these thoughts, because they were becoming increasingly hard to hide, oftentimes caused her to be overly sensitive which was just how she felt now while she waited. In the course of fifteen minutes her over-active imagination had already dreamt up numerous horrible reasons for Burt's being late.
As she sat there and worried, she failed to see Burt, who was coming at her from across the room. He had used a side entrance. His gait was slow and he was stumbling slightly.
Debbie sensed his presence, though, and turned around. When she saw the way he was walking, she jumped out of her chair and ran to help him all the while thinking her worst thoughts were coming true.
"What's the matter, Burt? Are you all right?" she asked as she looked at his face and noted it was deathly pale and that he was also sweating buckets.
Burt pushed her aside without a word and sat down. It was almost as if he didn't recognize her.
She followed him and sat down beside him.
"Burt, what's wrong? Didn't you do well on your chem midterm?" She was hoping it was something so innocent.
He pushed his textbook aside and shook his head. His color was slowly returning to normal. Then he spoke, "Debbie? What midterm are you talking about?"
She didn't like what she heard and lost her temper. She thought he was toying with her.
"You know damn well what chemistry midterm!" she snapped. "You were supposed to be taking the test for the past three hours!"
Burt looked puzzled and then glanced down at this book. "I was?"
"Yes, you were!"
"Well I didn't take it. Are you sure it was today?" he asked, a puzzled look on his face. He looked disoriented and was beginning to turn pale again.
Debbie wasn't buying what she thought was an act to cover up his whereabouts for the past three hours thinking his loss of color due to being caught in a lie rather than a manifestation of any illness.
"Burt Grayson, don't play games with m
e!" she warned.
Burt's eyes turned cold and stern. She had never seen him act this way before and it scared her.
Burt reacted to her withdrawing. "Damn it, Debbie!" He shouted. As he did, other students started to turn their heads. This only added embarrassment to Debbie's fear. It wasn't at all like Burt to make a scene.
He continued shouting. "Damn it, Debbie! Get off my case...I...I don't feel well."
He then leaned over from his chair and vomited up a greenish, foul-smelling liquid. Debbie saw it and began to involuntarily gag.
Burt then passed out, slumping over the table and hitting his head on it.
Debbie was in shock; She had no idea what was happening, but she saw by the sight of him, he needed medical attention immediately, so she ran to phone and called for help, leaving Burt lying face down in his own vomit.
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