Dirge

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  It did not matter how many physicians visited room fifty-four, however. The condition and status of the patient it housed did not change.

  The hospital's regular staff attended to his conventional, daily needs. He was fed and hydrated intravenously. Fifth-floor nurses bathed and changed him, making sure the mono-pole braces that suspended him in a clinical magnetic field above his resting place did not fail and drop him to the bed or surge and fling him against the ceiling. Such lifters, which held a patient aloft in a strong magnetic field, were usually reserved for seriously injured patients such as critical burn victims, and its employment simply to ensure the comfort of one who could not express feelings of pain puzzled some of the staff. But orders were orders, and since the facility was notably free of critical cases at that time it did not become anything more serious than a topic of conversation.

  That the patient was someone special was evident not only from the parade of specialists who visited his room but from the presence of the two plainclothes guards who were always present outside his door. These men and women were polite but uninformative, insisting to inquisitive staff that they had no more idea who the man in room fifty-four's bed was than they did. They had been assigned to watch and protect. There was no need for them to know anything more, and frankly, they preferred it that way.

  So the equatorial days slid into equatorial nights, with the tropical sun dropping systematically behind the distant high island of New Hanover, without more than a few people at the very top level of hospital administration knowing that the silent, unimpressive figure who lay motionless in corner room fifty-four was the most important patient on the entire planet. Certainly Irene Tse was unaware of his prominence. Unlike some of her colleagues, she worked the graveyard shift because it allowed her to spend many of her daylight hours diving. Wearing their compact rebreathers, she and her friends would spend endless hours in the waters framing the dozens of small islands that speckled the ocean surrounding New Ireland and New Hanover, observing what was still the world's most diverse and impressive aggregation of underwater life. Widowed at twenty-three when her husband had been crushed in a stampede of panicked three hundred kilo bluefin tuna, at thirty she had yet to remarry. A lively and spirited personality, she had been attracted to a number of men and several women, but attraction was not love, affection not passion.

  As far as the motionless man in fifty-four was concerned, identified on his charts as a Mr. Jones, to her he was just another patient who needed to be cared for, an insensible lump of humanity who might or might not one day emerge to a greater or lesser degree from his present state of catalepsy. At two o'clock in the morning she greeted the guards, both of whom were engrossed in watching a live windsand race from central Asia. Even though they all knew each other by sight now, she was required to produce her ident as well as being physically recognized by both retinal and heartwave scanners.

  Once passed into the room, she began by checking the monitors. It was not necessary for her to record their readings, as these were transmitted directly to the hospital's central monitoring facility. Activating the levitator, she changed the bed and sponge-bathed the patient while he hung suspended in the field, the atoms of his body temporarily magnetized. When she shut down the field he was lowered gently in fresh hospital gown onto the newly changed bed.

  She was preparing to move the osmotic fluid injector to a new area of his torso when she felt something touch her arm.

  She might have stopped breathing for a second or two. She wasn't sure. What she was certain of was that fingers had moved against her skin. Looking down, she saw that the patient's left hand had brushed her wrist. Fallen against it, no doubt. As she was preparing to make a note of the phenomenon, two of the fingers, the middle and the index, rose. Trembling, they lightly grazed her for a second time before falling back, as if exhausted by their own nominal weight.

  Looking up, she saw that the two fingers were not all that had moved. The patient's head was inclined toward her -though that may simply have been where it fell, she reminded herself. The open eyes did not startle her - they opened every morning, to stare at nothing, and closed every night. It was the moisture at one corner that was unexpected. It could easily have been the result of a miss with the soft towel following the evening bath. There was a quick and easy way to tell.

  Leaning forward and reaching over, she wiped at the bare trickle with a finger and brought it to her lips. Her tongue communicated the unmistakable taste of salt. The moisture was a tear.

  Why she voiced her thoughts she never knew. It was not a conscious decision, simply part of an automatic response. "I'll call the duty doctor," she whispered tightly. As she started to turn to do so, all five of the fingers on the patient's left hand suddenly uncurled and reached up to grab her wrist in a grip of iron.

  Lips fluttered, lips that had been kept moist through the judicious application of treated cloths and expensive salve. For the first time in the month and a day since the patient had been brought into the hospital and placed in his bed, a sound emerged from the hitherto unused throat. She had to lean close to sculpt a word from the whisper.

  "Don't..."

  Transfixed by the single word, by the man's blank stare, and by the utterly unexpected firmness of his grasp on her wrist, Tse stood there, not moving, waiting to see what would happen next. She could break the hold if she tried, she felt, island of New Hanover, without more than a few people at the very top level of hospital administration knowing that the silent, unimpressive figure who lay motionless in corner room fifty-four was the most important patient on the entire planet.

  Certainly Irene Tse was unaware of his prominence. Unlike some of her colleagues, she worked the graveyard shift because it allowed her to spend many of her daylight hours diving. Wearing their compact rebreathers, she and her friends would spend endless hours in the waters framing the dozens of small islands that speckled the ocean surrounding New Ireland and New Hanover, observing what was still the world's most diverse and impressive aggregation of underwater life. Widowed at twenty-three when her husband had been crushed in a stampede of panicked three hundred kilo bluefin tuna, at thirty she had yet to remarry. A lively and spirited personality, she had been attracted to a number of men and several women, but attraction was not love, affection not passion.

  As far as the motionless man in fifty-four was concerned, identified on his charts as a Mr. Jones, to her he was just another patient who needed to be cared for, an insensible lump of humanity who might or might not one day emerge to a greater or lesser degree from his present state of catalepsy. At two o'clock in the morning she greeted the guards, both of whom were engrossed in watching a live windsand race from central Asia. Even though they all knew each other by sight now, she was required to produce her ident as well as being physically recognized by both retinal and heartwave scanners.

  Once passed into the room, she began by checking the monitors. It was not necessary for her to record their readings, as these were transmitted directly to the hospital's central monitoring facility. Activating the levitator, she changed the bed and sponge-bathed the patient while he hung suspended in the field, the atoms of his body temporarily magnetized. When she shut down the field he was lowered gently in fresh hospital gown onto the newly changed bed.

  She was preparing to move the osmotic fluid injector to a new area of his torso when she felt something touch her arm.

  She might have stopped breathing for a second or two. She wasn't sure. What she was certain of was that fingers had moved against her skin. Looking down, she saw that the patient's left hand had brushed her wrist. Fallen against it, no doubt. As she was preparing to make a note of the phenomenon, two of the fingers, the middle and the index, rose. Trembling, they lightly grazed her for a second time before falling back, as if exhausted by their own nominal weight.

  Looking up, she saw that the two fingers were not all that had moved. The patient's head was inclined toward her -though that may simply have been where
it fell, she reminded herself. The open eyes did not startle her - they opened every morning, to stare at nothing, and closed every night. It was the moisture at one corner that was unexpected. It could easily have been the result of a miss with the soft towel following the evening bath. There was a quick and easy way to tell.

  Leaning forward and reaching over, she wiped at the bare trickle with a finger and brought it to her lips. Her tongue communicated the unmistakable taste of salt. The moisture was a tear.

  Why she voiced her thoughts she never knew. It was not a conscious decision, simply part of an automatic response. "I'll call the duty doctor," she whispered tightly. As she started to turn to do so, all five of the fingers on the patient's left hand suddenly uncurled and reached up to grab her wrist in a grip of iron.

  Lips fluttered, lips that had been kept moist through the judicious application of treated cloths and expensive salve. For the first time in the month and a day since the patient had been brought into the hospital and placed in his bed, a sound emerged from the hitherto unused throat. She had to lean close to sculpt a word from the whisper.

  "Don't..."

  Transfixed by the single word, by the man's blank stare, and by the utterly unexpected firmness of his grasp on her wrist, Tse stood there, not moving, waiting to see what would happen next. She could break the hold if she tried, she felt, but what effect might that have on the patient, who obviously wanted her to remain? He had spoken - she was certain of that. Could he also now hear?

  "I'll stay," she told him, "but let go of my arm. You're hurting me."

  The fingers relaxed, released her, slumped away from her wrist. In minutes, she knew, someone at Hospital Central would have noted the surge in physiological activity within the room. The duty doctor and staff might already be on their way.

  Sure enough, they piled into the room a couple of minutes later, crowding around the bed as close as they dared without impeding the patient's access to air. Among the panting arrivals was an imposing woman in expensive designer garb and a tall, lanky older man wearing the uniform of a high-ranking military officer. They competed for space and attention with Dr. Chimbu, who bent low over the patient.

  "Mr. Jones, can you hear me?" When no response was forthcoming from the motionless figure in the bed, the doctor looked expectantly up at the woman in the expensive suit. After exchanging a glance with the officer, he nodded solemnly and tried again - but differently.

  "Mr. Mallory. Alwyn Mallory, can you hear me?" The doctor licked his lips. "If you can hear me, can you give us a sign of some kind?"

  The single, barely perceptible nod the patient managed by way of response generated more activity in the room than a speech from the president of the world federation. Bodies flew through the outer door, startling the guards. More decorously dressed but heavily armed individuals appeared moments later. In the interim, a steadfast Dr. Chimbu tried to keep at a proper distance those who sought to crowd the bed. Only the woman in the suit would not be denied.

  "Mr. Mallory," she whispered in a compassionate and gracious tone, "you are on Earth. You are safe. You were brought here from the inner moon of Argus Five. Treetrunk. You were found there on a badly jury-rigged lifeboat of outmoded design, in a spacesuit that was supplying you with a seriously reduced flow of air, presumably to conserve dwindling sup- plies." She swallowed delicately. "It is presumed by some that you came from Treetrunk itself. Others feel you reached the moon from a passing ship. We - everyone - would like very much to know which is the truth of the matter." When no response was forthcoming she glanced back at the stone-faced officer and tried again.

  "Please, Mr. Mallory. If you can say anything, anything at all, do try to do so."

  The prone shape on the bed lay still and silent. Its lips did not move; its arms remained listless at its sides. Then very suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, it began screaming.

  "Out, everyone out!" Chimbu was already working on the patient, giving orders, directing nurses. The startled woman and her entourage were ejected from the room, despite the halfhearted protests of the man in uniform. Only Chimbu, two assistants who had arrived with him, and Tse, standing by the door, stayed.

  When the patient had been sedated and was once more resting quietly, eyes closed, heart rate and other vitals stabilized, Chimbu drew the nurse aside.

  "I saw what happened on the monitor replay. He grabbed your wrist. Is that correct?"

  She nodded slowly. "First I felt something - him - touch me. Then he grabbed me."

  "You touched his face in the vicinity of his left eye and then put your finger to your mouth." Chimbu's words were composed, professional. "What was that about?"

  "I saw moisture there. I thought it might be left from the bath I had just administered. It was salty. He was tearing." The doctor nodded. "He also moved his lips. The pickups that are in place are sensitive, but they're not perfect. Did he say anything to you?" The quiet intensity in the physician's voice unsettled her. Chimbu was no automaton, but around the hospital he was not noted for exhibiting a wide range of emotion.

  She licked her lips before replying. "Yes. He said, 'Don't.'"

  "That's all?" The doctor's expression wrinkled." 'Don't'?"

  She nodded, and he seemed disappointed. "Don't 'what'?"

  "I had the impression he didn't want me to leave."

  "Ah." Chimbu looked back at the stabilized, immobile patient for a long moment. "Then stay. If he even hinted that he might want you to stay, you should stay."

  "Doctor? I have to complete my rounds." What was happening here? she found herself wondering.

  "Not anymore," he informed her firmly. "As of right now you are relieved of all other duties. Replacements are already being scheduled. From this moment you are assigned to this patient exclusively. Furthermore, you are being placed on extended half-day shifts." Raising a hand, he forestalled her imminent objections. "You're also on double pay. No, triple." Murmuring more to himself than to her, he added, "Administration will approve it on my recommendation. They don't have any choice in the matter anyway." Raising his eyes back to hers, he remembered that he was speaking to another human being and not to a mechanical or a recorder.

  "I would like to make arrangements to move another bed in here, so you can sleep in the room when you're not officially on duty."

  She gaped at him. "Doctor? I take pride in my work, but I have a life outside it, you know."

  "I know; I know." He made mollifying gestures. "You'll be fully compensated for your sacrifice. And if the patient begins speaking rationally to others, you will be permitted to leave. On extended vacation, at hospital expense."

  Her eyes widened. " 'Permitted' to leave? What is this?" Looking past him, she focused on the man in the bed. The ordinary, now officially semicomatose man whose brief stirring had aroused an unexpected tidal wave of activity. "Who is this 'Mr. Jones' that you called Alwyn Mallory?"

  "You're a good nurse, Tse. You don't miss much." Chimbu pushed his physician's probe back from his forehead to the crest of his skull so that it pressed tightly against the receding hairline. "You know about Treetrunk?"

  She searched his face. He looked suddenly tired, weighed down by unexpected and unsought responsibility. "I'm not dead, so of course I know. What's that to do with this Mallory person?"

  "If you're going to attend him you have to know, so you might as well know now." The hospital's chief of staff was as serious as Tse had ever seen him. "He may be a survivor of the massacre."

  Overwhelmed by the implication, for a long moment she had nothing to say. Finally she stammered, "There are no survivors of what happened on Treetrunk."

  "You heard what the woman from the bureau said. He was found in a lifeboat on the planet's inner moon, traumatized and speechless. He might be a refugee from a passing ship, or someone a disgruntled crew kicked out. Or... he might be a survivor of the catastrophe. The only survivor." He peered deep into her startled eyes. "You understand now? Do you?"

  "Yes, Do
ctor." As much as anyone could understand the impossible, she thought.

  "He wants you to stay. Or he might have meant something else when he whispered 'Don't' to you. We don't know yet. We don't know anything. No one knows except him." Turning, he gazed speculatively at the figure in the bed. "His reactiveness tonight might have been a one-time fluke. Or it might be the harbinger of future stirrings. We can't take any chances with this man. He might be nothing important. Or he might be able to manage only another sentence or two. They might be sentences twenty billion humans are waiting to hear." He took a step back from her.

  "Until we know what he meant when he said 'Don't' to you, you are to stay with him. Continue with your usual duties. Bathe him, check his hydration and nutrients and medicine drip. Stay close." His tone softened. "I know you're not a statue, not a machine. You can use the room's tridee. Whatever you want to make you as personally comfortable as possible will be sent in. The room monitors will remain on, recording twenty-four hours a day just as they have been for more than a month, so you don't have to worry about missing something of significance. If one of his eyelids twitches, it will be noted and recorded."

  "What -" She tried to gather herself, to make sense of everything that had happened in the past few frenetic minutes. "- what else should I do?"

  Reaching out to her, Chimbu gently squeezed her shoulder. "Be here. For him. If he wants to whisper, you listen. If he wants to converse, you talk."

  She nodded. "Do you want me... Do you want me to ask him about Treetrunk?"

  The doctor considered. "No. The important thing right now is to encourage any progress in his condition. I'm still the Chief of Staff here, and I'll shield you. From the government, from the military. So will my colleagues. If he speaks, let him talk about whatever he wants. If he improves enough, we'll consider putting questions to him later. In the meantime his health is the most important thing. Don't worry - if he lets something important or relevant slip, it will be recorded." He released her shoulder.