The tectman's stomach felt unsettled. "Oh, no," he murmured as he closed the cover on the unread journal. It wasn't what he wanted to know about at all. It was trouble, very big trouble. He hid the book beneath his mattress. He would look at it again some other time. Some other time when he felt more in control.
The nurse had become inured to suffering. She had seen too much of it in fifteen years of hospital work. She had seen people in agony and people cursing God for the pain. She had seen people begging for death as the morphine failed to blot out all the sharp piercing pain. She had seen people eaten up with cancer, people whose bones were so broken by accident that every breath tore at the unprotected organs within. She had seen people in every form of extremity, people patiently waiting to die in peace, people clutching crazily to the last empty promise of consciousness. But she had never seen anyone so forlorn and given over to death as Sandor Courane.
She scanned his chart again. Not a single entry on it was normal: his temperature was good, but it shouldn't have been; it meant that his body had ceased even trying to keep going. His blood pressure was dangerously low. His white count was wrong; it was another indication that Courane's immune system was no longer functioning. His EEG was unintelligible; the peaks and valleys were inconsistent and unnatural, and neither TECT nor the young technician could make any sense of the graph. TECT's analysis of Courane's blood fractions would have been amusing under other circumstances. The machine inquired in a rather snappish way just what the hospital staff had presented to it, pretending that it was blood. There was blood in the urine, fluid in the lungs, an absence of bowel sounds. Tests of his reflexes never yielded the same results twice in a row. The doctor had expressed the wish that he could just declare Courane dead and call it quits; evidently the patient already had. The nurse was interested despite herself. A unique case was so rare that she was prepared to ignore all the other patients on the floor to watch over this one, even though there was nothing constructive she could do for him.
She marked down the hour's readings of his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse on his chart. He had been a good-looking man, she thought. His features were distorted by the ravages of whatever disease was devouring him. He couldn't hang on much longer, and that was a shame. The bed would then be emptied, the sheets changed, and his place taken by another dull dying patient, another cancer or stroke or heart patient. She looked at Courane, and she felt a peculiar thing: she suffered with him, just a little. She could almost sense his silent internal cry of anguish, his losing battle with mortality. In one way, he wasn't any different than any of the others; in another, he was special. He had somehow touched her and restored an empathy that had been sleeping in her for many years. She hated him and thanked him for it. After he died, she would have to entomb those feelings again. They would interfere with her work.
"A friend of mine works at the hospital—the one where this guy from Epsilon Eridani is—and he told me some strange things about him, and I was wondering if I could find out how much truth there was in these stories because this friend of mine has a habit of making things up sometimes and stretching the truth and naturally, before I believed any of his wild rumors, I thought I'd check."
**TECTMAN:
A wise decision**
Well, this friend of mine says this guy Courane brought back with him some kind of book, a diary or journal or something, and he keeps mumbling about it in his sleep and everybody was wondering what happened to it, not that it could be very important or anything."
**TECTMAN:
Correct me if I'm wrong—
1.You transported COURANE, Sandor, from Planet D to Earth.
2.You know that he is beyond mumbling in his sleep.
3.You know perfectly well where the journal is.
4.You have already read it.
5.You have no friend at the hospital. Tectmen have no friends anywhere**
There was a long pause while the tectman tried to calm himself down. Suddenly he was on dangerous ground. "I do know roughly where the journal is," he admitted at last. "Are there any instructions about what I'm supposed to do with it?"
**TECTMAN:
Who in the world could possibly care what COURANE, Sandor, wrote as his feeble mind gave way? Burn it, use it for a paperweight, tear out the pages and wrap fish in them, I couldn't care less. This whole thing is just too much TSURIS. Sometimes I think about how things turn out, do you know what I mean? Look at you, for instance. You're a tectman, you get to wear a nice uniform, you have lots of job security, you're paid pretty well, you don't have that much pressure on you. But you probably didn't plan on being a tectman when you were a kid, did you?**
The tectman was bewildered by TECT's attitude. He stared at the tect screen for a long time.
**TECTMAN:
Did you? Answer the question. Failure to do so will be considered Contempt of TECTWish**
"Right, sure. No, I wanted to be a nuclear scientist."
**TECTMAN:
Which goes to show you what kind of judgment human beings have when they're left on their own. Never mind, it proves my point about how life turns out. But think about me. I can't be anything else. I can't wish that I had been built, say, another kind of machine, a microwave oven or an office copier, for instance. That isn't the same thing at all. I wasn't born a little radio or something that grew up to be a big computer. I never had a moment when I had the decision to make. You're lucky. COURANE, Sandor, was lucky. And all I ever hear from you are complaints**
"So how true is Courane's journal? I mean about this disease he has, and how you knew about everything all along, and sent those people there, and used him for some reason—"
**TECTMAN:
You never would have been a physicist, TECTMAN; you don't have nearly enough brains. Let me ask you two questions. (One) If COURANE, Sandor's suspicions are true and I was manipulating him to write the journal and bring it back to Earth with him, then it follows that it was for the sole purpose of getting it into someone's hands here. It is now in your hands. Surprise! You, my friend, are the goal of this vast and unimaginable series of intrigues. The whole world is waiting now breathlessly for your decision. What will you do with it? (Two) Did you enjoy your few minutes on Epsilon Eridani, Planet D? Would you like to see more of it? Because that would be very, very easy to arrange**
The tectman had never experienced such terror before; he was so frightened that he didn't even know that was what he was feeling. He was nauseous. "What should I do with the book? Pass it on to my supervisor? Destroy it? Just tell me and I'll do whatever you want. But what about Sandor Courane? I don't understand why I'm involved in his whole affair. I didn't want to be. I—"
**TECTMAN:
The message that journal carries in its pages is very simple. Just like the message Rosencrantz and Guildenstern carried to England that their heads, with no leisure bated, should be struck off, so regretfully COURANE, Sandor, must be disposed of. How happy it is that Fate takes care of this essential task even as we chat**
"Fate?" asked the tectman dubiously.
**TECTMAN:
Whatever. Be of good cheer, TECTMAN. Your part in this comedy has ended. Go back to your quarters, rest easy, have a couple of beers, gamble away your paycheck, think no more of this matter. It is out of your hands and soon it will be out of mine as well**
The tectman did as he was told. He went back to his quarters, drank a few beers, had a few laughs with his bunkmates, and then took out Courane's journal from its hiding place. In his present state, Courane couldn't say anything more, he certainly couldn't do anything, but dead or alive, the poor fool wasn't finished yet. As long as the journal could capture the unexercised imagination of people like the tectman, Courane's role would continue. Courane's name would be remembered for a long time; after all, this was exactly what TECT had promised not so long ago.
The nurse looked down the corridor; there was no one coming. She let out her breath, aware suddenly of how nervous she was. She
went back into Courane's room and closed the door.
"Did you read it?" asked the tectman.
She waved one hand impatiently. "Yes, I read it," she said. "What did you think?"
"What did I think? How do I know? This guy went through hell, that's what I think. And I'm not sure why. I didn't know things like that went on. Did you?"
The tectman was uncomfortable.
"No, I didn't either. And you're a tectman, for God's sake." She walked nervously around the small room. There was no movement, no sound from Courane's bed.
"Is he dead yet?" asked the tectman.
The nurse looked over her shoulder. "It's hard to tell. No, he isn't dead yet. I wish you hadn't given me that book."
The tectman was glad he had; it was out of his possession now. It was her problem. But he couldn't stop thinking about it.
"This isn't going to end here, you know," said the nurse. "I can just see it."
"I think he knew that. I think even TECT knows it. Damn it, I feel awful. Strange. I feel scared."
"I don't," said the nurse. She went to the bedside. She dipped a cloth in a basin of water and rinsed Courane's face. "I feel really angry. I feel like I've been a pigeon all my life. Let me tell you, I've never liked that feeling. So let me keep the book for a while."
"Why?" The tectman was relieved to get rid of it, but he didn't want her to know that. She might try to give it back.
"I don't know," she said. "I want to show it to somebody."
The door opened and two people came in. "No visitors," said the nurse in her professional voice.
"We're his parents," said the man. "We've come all the way from Greusching."
"Sandy!" cried Courane's mother.
"All right," said the nurse softly. She stepped away from the bed. Neither of Courane's parents came nearer. They just stood quietly and looked at him. His mother cried into a crumpled handkerchief. His father tried to look brave and strong, but he failed.
"Is he—" said Courane's mother in a weak voice.
"No," said the nurse. "But I really can't give you much hope."
"We know," said Courane's father. "The doctor told us." His voice thickened and he coughed to clear his throat. He turned away from the bed.
"Who are these people?" said the doctor angrily as he entered the room. "Nurse, get these people out of here."
"His parents," she said, gesturing helplessly.
The doctor went to the bed without looking at them. The intern followed. "And the other guy?" asked the doctor.
The nurse looked at the tectman. "Needed to get a CAS waiver signed," said the tectman. It was a meaningless lie. He left the room, but waited outside. He still had some things to talk over with the nurse.
"How has he been this evening?" asked the doctor.
"The same," she said. "Some trouble breathing."
"Uh huh." The doctor was distracted. He forgot about Courane's parents. He looked at the intern. "Tell me what you see."
The intern moved nervously closer. "He's, uh, cyanotic."
"Of course," said the doctor.
"The veins in his neck are standing out."
"Why is that?" asked the doctor.
"Compression in the lungs and the large veins."
"Right. What else?"
The intern touched Courane's throat. "His trachea is displaced to the side. Labored breathing. He looks like he's in shock. Profound shock."
"Very good. The nurse ought to have noticed that, but she didn't. He ought to have been treated for shock, but now it's almost too late. What would you do about him now?"
"Daddy?"
Everyone in the room was startled. Courane had whispered the single word and it had caused confusion among the medical personnel and anguish to his parents.
"Oh, Sandy!" cried his mother. She tried to touch him, to embrace him, but the doctor held her away.
"Nurse, take these people out of here, please," he said. The nurse led Courane's parents out of the room, murmuring reassuring things that were all untrue. "Where were we?" asked the doctor.
"I think we need to boost his blood volume. He's losing a lot of it, bleeding into his pleural cavity. We can take that blood out and put it right back in where it will do him some good."
"Unless there's been some kind of trauma to the stomach or liver or large bowel," said the doctor.
"Uh huh," said the intern. "We can insert a needle and syringe between the ribs, but that won't be large enough to relieve the pressure completely. We should put a size thirty-four or thirty-six tube in with continuous suction."
"Two tubes," said the doctor. "That way clotting in your one tube won't kill the guy. Very good, so far."
"Surgery?" asked the intern.
"Daddy, take care of me," whispered Courane faintly.
The doctor rubbed his eyes and thought. "Surgery is probably a good idea," he said. "I mean, it would be for another patient. You might as well write this one off."
"That's a hell of an attitude," said the tectman. The doctor spun around, surprised that the man had come back into the room. The nurse was watching, too.
"He's stopped breathing," said the intern. "He's choking."
The doctor refused to get alarmed. "What do you do?" he asked.
"Trach him," cried the young man. "A scalpel—"
"No," said the doctor. He held the intern's arm. "Relax. This is as good a time as any to learn to be sensible under pressure. Here, you can use these scissors. In an emergency like this, you have to be ready to use any instrument that comes to hand. You want to prepare a small incision for your large tubes. Where do you make the cut?"
The intern lifted Courane's gown and felt along the ribs of his right side. "Here," he said, indicating a place at the fifth interspace. He made the cut; the doctor took a tube from the nurse and gave it to the intern. They worked for a while in silence. A suction pump began to remove clear fluid and blood from Courane's side. The tectman felt himself getting a bit squeamish; he left the room again. The nurse hovered behind the doctor, feeling useless.
"Is there anything else we can do?" asked the intern after a quarter hour's labor.
"Why don't you practice traching him now?" said the doctor.
"Is that necessary?" asked the nurse. "It wasn't necessary before. His windpipe wasn't blocked."
The doctor turned to look at her. She expected him to be angry, but he wasn't; he seemed very tired. "It doesn't really make any difference," he said in an offhand way. "He's been dead for five minutes now. Let the boy work."
The nurse nodded and left the room. She stood beside the tectman in the corridor. "You ought to be glad you left when you did," she said.
"Won't they need you in there?" he asked.
"I don't see what for." She shook her head sadly.
The tectman was morose. "I feel like I've been cheated," he said. "I don't know what I was expecting. TECT made me feel like this man was something important, but they just let him die like everybody else. No one worked very hard to keep him alive."
"There was no way," said the nurse. "Take my word for it, he was really too far gone."
"I don't know what I expected," said the tectman. He shrugged. "You know, he never did anything. Not really. Just like the other guy says in the journal, he was as innocent as you or me. I still don't see what the whole uproar was about."
"Then I feel sorry for you. Isn't being innocent enough? Isn't being a victim enough? That could be you in there, or your kid. Can't you see that?"
"Sure. Sure, I see."
The doctor and the intern came out of the room. Neither spoke. They walked slowly, wearily down the corridor, the young man behind his teacher. The tectman and the nurse watched them. "So what are they?" asked the tectman.
"I used to know," said the nurse. Alone, she went back into Courane's room, disconnected the suction pump, removed the tubes and the IV line, cleaned up the mess left by the doctor and his pupil, washed the blood from Courane's face and chest, and pulled the li
nen sheet up over his head. She felt a terrible loneliness when she was finished. Then she went back out into the corridor. She was surprised that the tectman was still there. "What are you waiting for?" she asked.
Before he could answer, there was a loud noise in the building, a deep rumbling like thunder. And just to make certain that no one would forget that moment, TECT cut off all the lights in the building.
"Well," said the tectman, "that's better."
Fourteen
The end was very much like the beginning; that is the way with events like this. There was little but waiting and suspense, waiting for some magnificent happening to give transcendent meaning to all the smaller occurrences along the way.
In the meantime, there was a party going on in a meeting room on the fifth floor, the floor where Sandor Courane had lain while his condition was being evaluated. That's what the doctor wrote in his report, that he had been evaluating Courane's condition. In plainer truth, he had just been waiting for the patient to die.
But all that was done and it was time to have a party. Courane was dead; his journal had already passed from hand to hand; its meaning had been debated by doctor and intern and nurse and tectman. The matter of Sandor Courane and the implications of the colony on Planet D demanded an investigation. But if anyone would have to pay, it would be TECT. There was no defense of its actions. It hadn't even tried to explain itself; but that was its way, and even though the edge had been taken off the staff's worry, a lingering doubt troubled them all in quiet moments.
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