Some of his feeling was devoted to the machine itself. Massive, ugly, with parts sticking out in haphazard order, it was more like something from an inquisition chamber than a scientist’s achievement, but it worked – he’d seen it functioning. In that ugly mass of assorted pieces, little currents were generated and modulated to feed out to the heart and lungs and replace the orders given by a brain that no longer worked or could not get through, to coordinate breathing and beating according to the need. It was a product of the combined genius of surgery and electronics, but wonderful as the exciter was, it was distinctly secondary to the technique Kubelik had evolved for selecting and connecting only those nerves and nerve bundles necessary, and bringing the almost impossible into the limits of surgical possibility.
Brown interrupted, and that interruption in the midst of such an operation indicated clearly the strain she was under. “The heart fluttered a little then, Dr. Ferrel.”
Ferrel nodded, untroubled by the interruption. Talk, which bothered most surgeons, was habitual in his own little staff, and he always managed to have one part of his mind reserved for that while the rest went on without noticing. “Good. That gives us at least double the leeway I expected.”
His hands went on, first with the heart which was the more pressing danger. Would the machine work, he wondered, in this case? Curare and radioactives, fighting each other, were an odd combination. Yet, the machine controlled the nerves close to the vital organ, pounding its message through into the muscles, where the curare had a complicated action that paralyzed the whole nerve, establishing a long block to the control impulses from the brain. Could the nerve impulses from the machine be forced through the short paralyzed passages? Probably – the strength of its signals was controllable. The only proof was in trying.
Brown drew back her hands and stared down uncomprehendingly. “It’s beating, Dr. Ferrel! By itself . . . it’s beating!”
He nodded again, though the mask concealed his smile. His technique was still not faulty, and he had performed the operation correctly after seeing it once on a dog! He was still the Great Ferrel! Then, the ego in him fell back to normal, though the lift remained, and his exultation centered around the more important problem of Jorgenson’s living. And, later, when the lungs began moving of themselves as the nurse stopped working them, he had been expecting it. The detail work remaining was soon over, and he stepped back, dropping the mask from his face and pulling off his gloves.
“Congratulations, Dr. Ferrel!” The voice was guttural, strange. “A truly great operation – truly great. I almost stopped you, but now I am glad I did not; it was a pleasure to observe you, sir.” Ferrel looked up in amazement at the bearded smiling face of Kubelik, and he found no words as he accepted the other’s hand. But Kubelik apparently expected none.
“I, Kubelik, came, you see; I could not trust another with the machine, and fortunately I made the plane. Then you seemed so sure, so confident – so when you did not notice me, I remained in the background, cursing myself. Now, I shall return, since you have no need of me – the wiser for having watched you. . . . No, not a word; not a word from you, sir. Don’t destroy your miracle with words. The ’copter awaits me, I go; but my admiration for you remains forever!”
Ferrel still stood looking down at his hand as the roar of the ’copter cut in, then at the breathing body with artery on the neck now pulsing regularly. That was all that was needed; he had been admired by Kubelik, the man who thought all other surgeons were fools and nincompoops. For a second or so longer he treasured it, then shrugged it off.
“Now,” he said to the others, as the troubles of the plant fell back on his shoulders, “all we have to do is hope that Jorgenson’s brain wasn’t injured by the session out there, or by this continued artifically maintained life, and try to get him in condition so he can talk before it’s too late. God grant us time! Blake, you know the detail work as well as I do, and we can’t both work on it. You and the fresh nurses take over, doing the bare minimum needed for the patients scattered around the wards and waiting room. Any new ones?”
“None for some time; I think they’ve reached a stage where that’s over with,” Brown answered.
“I hope so. Then go round up Jenkins and lie down somewhere. That goes for you and Meyers, too, Dodd. Blake, give us three hours if you can, and get us up. There won’t be any new developments before then, and we’ll save time in the long run by resting. Jorgenson’s to get first attention!”
The old leather chair made a fair sort of bed, and Ferrel was too exhausted physically and mentally to be choosy – too exhausted to benefit as much as he should from sleep of three hours’ duration, for that matter, though it was almost imperative he try. Idly, he wondered what Palmer would think of all his safeguards had he known that Kubelik had come into the place so easily and out again. Not that it mattered; it was doubtful whether anyone else would want to come near, let alone inside the plant.
In that, apparently, he was wrong. It was considerably less than the three hours when he was awakened to hear the bullroar of a helicopter outside. But sleep clouded his mind too much for curiosity and he started to drop back into his slumber. Then another sound cut in jerking him out of his drowsiness. It was the sharp sputter of a machine gun from the direction of the gate, a pause and another burst; an eddy of sleep-memory indicated that it had begun before the helicopter’s arrival, so it could not be that they were gunning. More trouble, and while it was none of his business, he could not go back to sleep. He got up and went out into the surgery, just as a gnomish little man hopped out from the rear entrance.
The fellow scooted toward Ferrel after one birdlike glance at Blake, his words spilling out with a jerky self-importance that should have been funny, but missed it by a small margin; under the surface, sincerity still managed to show. “Dr. Ferrel? Uh, Dr. Kubelik – Mayo’s, you know – he reported you were short-handed; stacking patients in the other rooms. We volunteered for duty – me, four other doctors, nine nurses. Probably should have checked with you, but couldn’t get a phone through. Took the liberty of coming through directly, fast as we could push our ’copters.”
Ferrel glanced through the back, and saw that there were three of the machines, instead of the one he’d thought, with men and equipment piling out of them. Mentally he kicked himself for not asking for help when he’d put through the call; but he’d been used to working with his own little staff for so long that the ready response of his profession to emergencies had been almost forgotten. “You know you’re taking chances coming here, naturally? Then, in that case, I’m grateful to you and Kubelik. We’ve got about forty patients here, all of whom should have considerable attention, though I frankly doubt whether there’s room for you to work.”
The man hitched his thumb backward jerkily. “Don’t worry about that. Kubelik goes the limit when he arranges things. Everything we need with us, practically all the hospital’s atomic equipment; though maybe you’ll have to piece us out there. Even a field hospital tent, portable wards for every patient you have. Want relief in here or would you rather have us simply move out the patients to the tent, leave this end to you? Oh, Kubelik sent his regards. Amazing of him!”
Kubelik, it seemed, had a tangible idea of regards, however dramatically he was inclined to express them; with him directing the volunteer force, the wonder was that the whole staff and equipment hadn’t been moved down. “Better leave this end,” Ferrel decided. “Those in the wards will probably be better off in your tent as well as the men now in the waiting room; we’re equipped beautifully for all emergency work, but not used to keeping the patients here any length of time, so our accommodations that way are rough. Dr. Blake will show you around and help you get organized in the routine we use here. He’ll get help for you in erecting the tent, too. By the way, did you hear the commotion by the entrance as you were landing?”
“We did, indeed. We saw it, too – bunch of men in some kind of uniform shooting a machine gun; hitting the gro
und, though. Bunch of other people running back away from it, shaking their fists, looked like. We were expecting a dose of the same, maybe; didn’t notice us, though.”
Blake snorted in half amusement. “You probably would have gotten it if our manager hadn’t forgotten to give orders covering the air approach; they must figure that’s an official route. I saw a bunch from the city arguing about their relatives in here when I came in this morning, so it must have been that.” He motioned the little doctor after him, then turned his neck back to address Brown. “Show him the results while I’m gone, honey.”
Ferrel forgot his new recruits and swung back to the girl. “Bad?”
She made no comment, but picked up a lead shield and placed it over Jorgenson’s chest so that it cut off all radiation from the lower part of his body, then placed the radiation indicator close to the man’s throat. Doc looked once; no more was needed. It was obvious that Blake had already done his best to remove the radioactive from all parts of the body needed for speech, in the hope that they might strap down the others and block them off with local anesthetics; then the curare could have been counteracted long enough for such information as was needed. Equally obviously, he’d failed. There was no sense in going through the job of neutralizing the drug’s block only to have him under the control of the radioactive still present. The stuff was too finely dispersed for surgical removal. Now what? He had no answer.
Jenkins’ lean-sinewed hand took the indicator from him for inspection. The boy was already frowning as Doc looked up in faint surprise, and his face made no change. He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I figured as much. That was a beautiful piece of work you did, too. Too bad. I was watching from the door and you almost convinced me he’d be all right, the way you handled it. But—So we have to make out without him; and Hoke and Palmer haven’t even cooked up a lead that’s worth a good test. Want to come into my office, Doc? There’s nothing we can do here.”
Ferrel followed Jenkins into the little office off the now emptied waiting room; the men from the hospital had worked rapidly, it seemed. “So you haven’t been sleeping, I take it? Where’s Hokusai now?”
“Out there with Palmer; he promised to behave, if that’ll comfort you. . . . Nice guy, Hoke; I’d forgotten what it felt like to talk to an atomic engineer without being laughed at. Palmer, too. I wish—” There was a brief lightening to the boy’s face and the first glow of normal human pride Doc had seen in him. Then he shrugged, and it vanished back into his taut cheeks and reddened eyes. “We cooked up the wildest kind of a scheme, but it isn’t so hot.”
Hoke’s voice came out of the doorway, as the little man came in and sat down carefully in one of the three chairs.
“No, not sso hot! It iss fail, already. Jorgensson?”
“Out, no hope there! What happened?”
Hoke spread his arms, his eyes almost closing. “Nothing. We knew it could never work, not sso? Misster Palmer, he iss come ssoon here, then we make planss again, I am think now, besst we sshould move from here. Palmer, I – mosstly we are theoreticians; and, excusse, you alsso, doctor. Jorgensson wass the production man. No Jorgensson, no – ah – ssoap!”
Mentally, Ferrel agreed about the moving – and soon! But he could see Palmer’s point of view; to give up the fight was against the grain, somehow. And besides, once the blowup happened, with the resultant damage to an unknown area, the pressure groups in Congress would be in, shouting for the final abolition of all atomic work; now they were reasonably quiet, only waiting an opportunity – or, more probably, at the moment were already seizing on the rumors spreading to turn this into their coup. If, by some streak of luck, Palmer could save the plant with no greater loss of life and property than already existed, their words would soon be forgotten, and the benefits from the products of National would again outweigh all risks.
“Just what will happen if it all goes off?” he asked.
Jenkins shrugged, biting at his inner lip as he went over a sheaf of papers on the desk, covered with the scrawling symbols of atomics. “Anybody’s guess. Suppose three tons of the army’s new explosives were to explode in a billionth – or at least, a millionth – of a second? Normally, you know, compared to atomics, that stuff burns like any fire, slowly and quietly, giving its gases plenty of time to get out of the way in an orderly fashion. Figure it one way, with this all going off together, and the stuff could drill a hole that’d split open the whole continent from Hudson Bay to the Gulf of Mexico, and leave a lovely sea where the Middle West is now. Figure it another, and it might only kill off everything within fifty miles of here. Somewhere in between is the chance we count on. This isn’t U-235, you know.”
Doc winced. He’d been picturing the plant going up in the air violently, with maybe a few buildings somewhere near it, but nothing like this. It had been purely a local affair to him, but this didn’t sound like one. No wonder Jenkins was in that state of suppressed jitters; it wasn’t too much imagination, but too much cold, hard knowledge that was worrying him. Ferrel looked at their faces as they bent over the symbols once more, tracing out point by point their calculations in the hope of finding one overlooked loophole, then decided to leave them alone.
The whole problem was hopeless without Jorgenson, it seemed, and Jorgenson was his responsibility; if the plant went, it was squarely on the senior physician’s shoulders. But there was no apparent solution. If it would help, he could cut it down to a direct path from brain to speaking organs, strap down the body and block off all nerves below the neck, using an artificial larynx instead of the normal breathing through vocal cords. But the indicator showed the futility of it; the orders could never get through from the brain with the amount of radioactive still present throwing them off track – even granting that the brain itself was not affected, which was doubtful.
Fortunately for Jorgenson, the stuff was all finely dispersed around the head, with no concentration at any one place that was unquestionably destructive to his mind; but the good fortune was also the trouble, since it could not be removed by any means known to medical practice. Even so simple a thing as letting the man read the questions and spell out the answers by winking an eyelid as they pointed to the alphabet was hopeless.
Nerves! Jorgenson had his blocked out, but Ferrel wondered if the rest of them weren’t in as bad a state. Probably, somewhere well within their grasp, there was a solution that was being held back because the nerves of everyone in the plant were blocked by fear and pressure that defeated its own purpose. Jenkins, Palmer, Hokusai – under purely theoretical conditions, any one of them might spot the answer to the problem, but sheer necessity of finding it could be the thing that hid it. The same might be true with the problem of Jorgenson’s treatment. Yet, though he tried to relax and let his mind stray idly around the loose ends, and seemingly disconnected knowledge he had, it returned incessantly to the necessity of doing something, and doing it now!
Ferrel heard weary footsteps behind him and turned to see Palmer coming from the front entrance. The man had no business walking into the surgery, but such minor rules had gone by the board hours before.
“Jorgenson?” Palmer’s conversation began with the same old question in the usual tone, and he read the answer from Doc’s face with a look that indicated it was no news. “Hoke and that Jenkins kid still in the there?”
Doc nodded, and plodded behind him toward Jenkins’ office; he was useless to them, but there was still the idea that in filling his mind with other things, some little factor he had overlooked might have a chance to come forth. Also, curiosity still worked on him, demanding to know what was happening. He flopped into the third chair, and Palmer squatted down on the edge of the table.
“Know a good spiritualist, Jenkins?” the manager asked. “Because if you do, I’m about ready to try calling back Kellar’s ghost. The Steinmetz of atomics – so he had to die before this Isotope R came up, and leave us without even a good guess at how long we’ve got to crack the problem. Hey, what’s the matter?”
>
Jenkins’ face had tensed and his body straightened back tensely in the chair, but he shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching wryly. “Nothing. Nerves, I guess. Hoke and I dug out some things that give an indication on how long this runs, though. We still don’t know exactly, but from observations out there and the general theory before, it looks like something between six and thirty hours left; probably ten’s closer to being correct!”
“Can’t be much longer. It’s driving the men back right now! Even the tanks can’t get in where they can do the most good, and we’re using the shielding around No. 3 as a headquarters for the men; in another half hour, maybe they won’t be able to stay that near the thing. Radiation indicators won’t register any more, and it’s spitting all over the place, almost constantly. Heat’s terrific; it’s gone up to around three hundred centigrade and sticks right there now, but that’s enough to warm up 3, even.”
Doc looked up. “No. 3?”
“Yeah. Nothing happened to that batch – it ran through and came out I-713 right on schedule, hours ago.” Palmer reached for a cigarette, realized he had one in his mouth, and slammed the package back on the table. “Significant data, Doc; if we get out of this, we’ll figure out just what caused the change in No. 4 – if we get out! Any chance of making those variable factors work, Hoke?”
Hoke shook his head, and again Jenkins answered from the notes. “Not a chance; sure, theoretically, at least, R should have a period varying between twelve and sixty hours before turning into Mahler’s Isotope, depending on what chains of reaction or subchains it goes through; they all look equally good, and probably are all going on in there now, depending on what’s around to soak up neutrons or let them roam, the concentration and amount of R together, and even high or low temperatures that change their activity somewhat. It’s one of the variables, no question about that.”
The Mammoth Book of Golden Age SF Page 19