Read Online My Brother's Keeper by Charles Sheffield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Sheffield
Tags: Science-Fiction
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she gestured me in I heard a bellow from the inner office.
"Bad mood?" I said to her.
She nodded. There was a shout from inside: "When I say the records have to be looked at, I bloody well mean it. We're a hospital, not a knacker's yard. Do you understand?"
His secretary bit her lip. The door to the inner office opened and two men in white coats came out. One of them was sweating heavily and his face was as white and shiny as bone china. His companion steered him out. Neither of them even looked at us. The secretary took a deep breath.
"We lost two patients during the night," she said softly, her hand on my arm. "He thinks it was our fault—we didn't pay enough attention to the X-rays and the drug tolerances."
"Is he right?" I automatically lowered my voice to a whisper.
"Probably not. But it always upsets him. Try not to excite him."
He seemed to me to be excited enough already. "I thought doctors didn't get emotionally involved?" I whispered to her. "They can't afford to be too subjective if a patient dies."
She managed the trace of a smile. "Not the really good ones—they're involved. HE"—you could hear the capital letters in her voice—"takes it as a personal insult from Nature when he loses a patient. Come on, let's go in. Don't mind if he's hard to deal with."
Sir Westcott was sitting at the big desk, staring blindly at a folder in front of him. His fringe of hair was sticking up wildly, and his jowls looked fatter and looser than ever. I sat down uninvited in the chair opposite and waited. Finally he grunted, closed the folder, and looked up at me.
"I know, you want to get out of here. It's too soon, and you're being a bloody fool, but that's your option."
"I'm feeling good. I'm taking up a room somebody else might need."
"That's for me to worry about." He tapped the folder. "Take a look in there if you think you're in great shape. This past week you've had fevers twice, and your blood pressure's been up and down faster than a whore's knickers. You should be taking things real easy. It's daft buggers like you that keep the undertakers in business."
As he spoke he was watching me closely, but his eyes would flicker now and again to a glass ornament on the top of the desk. Tess had told me all about it. The chair I was sitting on had sensors for pulse and blood pressure, with a display built into the far side of the paperweight. He was deliberately trying to excite me and watching for the reaction.
I sat quite still. "I'll be taking things easy. And I won't go far away. From Shepherds Bush I can be here in an hour and a half, and I'm not planning on leaving my flat much."
He took a last look at the paperweight, then nodded. "You'll do. Bugger off then, before I change my mind. And here, take this with you." He picked up a flat plastic pillbox about as big across as a ten-penny piece. "You've been moaning to Nurse Thomson about you being an experimental animal with your operation—don't deny it, I know more than you think. Well, this makes you a real experiment. The fellows over at Guy's have come up with a new drug, a synthetic neurotransmitter, right out of the lab. It still has to go through controlled tests, but they think it may damp the unstable feedback situations that we've sometimes had with Madrill's nerve regeneration treatment."
I picked up the pillbox. "How do I take this?"
"You don't—not unless you have to. You'll know a seizure's coming on if you feel like you're getting smaller and smaller. Cram a couple of these pills down, as fast as you can. They'll damp the regeneration process for a few hours. Get to a hospital."
"What if I can't reach one?"
"No problem." He grinned. "You'll be dead. An' chances are you'll only have yourself to blame. The Madrill treatment goes wild if you get too worked up and excited over something."
"Don't rub it in. I got the message." I put the pillbox into my pocket. "I'd just like to thank you for all the work—"
"Nonsense." He banged the buzzer on
"Bad mood?" I said to her.
She nodded. There was a shout from inside: "When I say the records have to be looked at, I bloody well mean it. We're a hospital, not a knacker's yard. Do you understand?"
His secretary bit her lip. The door to the inner office opened and two men in white coats came out. One of them was sweating heavily and his face was as white and shiny as bone china. His companion steered him out. Neither of them even looked at us. The secretary took a deep breath.
"We lost two patients during the night," she said softly, her hand on my arm. "He thinks it was our fault—we didn't pay enough attention to the X-rays and the drug tolerances."
"Is he right?" I automatically lowered my voice to a whisper.
"Probably not. But it always upsets him. Try not to excite him."
He seemed to me to be excited enough already. "I thought doctors didn't get emotionally involved?" I whispered to her. "They can't afford to be too subjective if a patient dies."
She managed the trace of a smile. "Not the really good ones—they're involved. HE"—you could hear the capital letters in her voice—"takes it as a personal insult from Nature when he loses a patient. Come on, let's go in. Don't mind if he's hard to deal with."
Sir Westcott was sitting at the big desk, staring blindly at a folder in front of him. His fringe of hair was sticking up wildly, and his jowls looked fatter and looser than ever. I sat down uninvited in the chair opposite and waited. Finally he grunted, closed the folder, and looked up at me.
"I know, you want to get out of here. It's too soon, and you're being a bloody fool, but that's your option."
"I'm feeling good. I'm taking up a room somebody else might need."
"That's for me to worry about." He tapped the folder. "Take a look in there if you think you're in great shape. This past week you've had fevers twice, and your blood pressure's been up and down faster than a whore's knickers. You should be taking things real easy. It's daft buggers like you that keep the undertakers in business."
As he spoke he was watching me closely, but his eyes would flicker now and again to a glass ornament on the top of the desk. Tess had told me all about it. The chair I was sitting on had sensors for pulse and blood pressure, with a display built into the far side of the paperweight. He was deliberately trying to excite me and watching for the reaction.
I sat quite still. "I'll be taking things easy. And I won't go far away. From Shepherds Bush I can be here in an hour and a half, and I'm not planning on leaving my flat much."
He took a last look at the paperweight, then nodded. "You'll do. Bugger off then, before I change my mind. And here, take this with you." He picked up a flat plastic pillbox about as big across as a ten-penny piece. "You've been moaning to Nurse Thomson about you being an experimental animal with your operation—don't deny it, I know more than you think. Well, this makes you a real experiment. The fellows over at Guy's have come up with a new drug, a synthetic neurotransmitter, right out of the lab. It still has to go through controlled tests, but they think it may damp the unstable feedback situations that we've sometimes had with Madrill's nerve regeneration treatment."
I picked up the pillbox. "How do I take this?"
"You don't—not unless you have to. You'll know a seizure's coming on if you feel like you're getting smaller and smaller. Cram a couple of these pills down, as fast as you can. They'll damp the regeneration process for a few hours. Get to a hospital."
"What if I can't reach one?"
"No problem." He grinned. "You'll be dead. An' chances are you'll only have yourself to blame. The Madrill treatment goes wild if you get too worked up and excited over something."
"Don't rub it in. I got the message." I put the pillbox into my pocket. "I'd just like to thank you for all the work—"
"Nonsense." He banged the buzzer on
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