What they did not know was that Digen, because of his unique lateral injury, was probably the only Sime who would ever be able—or willing—to attempt to learn surgery. Fighting his way back to life after the injury, Digen had developed a vriamic control never before seen in any channel. It allowed him to withstand the peculiar, grating shock of slicing or puncturing Gen flesh much better than could other Simes.
In-Territory, it was commonly believed that the first steps back toward the kill, toward going junct, were exposure to Gen pain, fear, or injury—inflicting such sensations on Gens—and then sharing the junct’s strange gratification in these things. All through medical school, Digen had faced frequent demands that he be tested for any hint of a weakening of his antikill conditioning. He had always tested clean—so far. But he couldn’t use that as an argument with the Gens, because, if they suspected surgery might cause him to turn junct, he would never complete his internship.
Digen eyed the door to the inner office. Maybe it was all going to be for nothing, anyway. Why would they call him up here on his first day?
The secretary returned, saying, “You may go in now.” She gave him a tentative smile. She was an out-Territory Gen unaccustomed to dealing with Simes. Digen made a fatalistic shrug and went in.
The office was larger than Mickland’s and just as formal. The man behind the desk was white-haired and had a ruddy complexion; he was perhaps fifty-five or sixty. From the large windows behind him, the early afternoon sun threw beams across the desk, spotlighting the two file folders that lay there.
“Dr. Branoff,” said Digen, coming across the deep red carpet toward the desk. “You wanted to see me about something?”
As Digen neared the two high backed wing chairs before the desk, he realized one was occupied. “Oh!” he said, as he recognized the Gen he had rescued in Sorelton.
What has he told Branoff? Digen looked back at the administrator, wishing he could read minds. He could see that the older man was tense, grave, but not openly hostile.
Branoff gestured to the empty chair. “Have a seat, Dr. Farris. Let me introduce Dr. Joel Hogan.”
Hogan had his elbows propped on the arm of the chair, which pushed his shoulders up around his ears. He was avoiding Digen’s gaze, and his nager was a muddy swirl of mixed emotions. Branoff reached into a drawer and pulled out an orange and blue magazine, shoving it across the desk at Digen. “Have you seen this?”
“I glanced at it in your outer office, sir.”
“I’ve been in an emergency board meeting all morning, discussing it. It’s only been out forty-eight hours, and already pressure is being brought to bear on this hospital.”
Digen nodded. It was to be expected. It had been the same when he’d finally been accepted into a medical school. Lasser had withstood it because they were the best, they had enough prestige to afford it.
Branoff slapped the magazine against the desk. “I’ve never knuckled under to this kind of pressure in my life and I don’t intend to start now. But I think you’re entitled to know what’s going on. I’ve just come from a meeting with a committee of our new interns. Five have threatened to quit unless you are dismissed immediately.”
Digen looked at Hogan. Is he one of the ones who has threatened to quit?
“The board,” continued Branoff, “is very disturbed at the idea of losing five interns over this. So I offered the interns and the board a compromise. You were hired as a surgical intern, to go directly into the surgical ward. Instead, you will be put into the general program.”
Digen sighed with relief. It would be harder to get a surgical residency, but at least the door wasn’t slammed in his face. And he would still get to do some surgery. “Thank you, sir.”
“A man who’s just been axed doesn’t usually say thank you. Didn’t you want the spot?”
“Yes, sir. You know I did. Almost every day I have to watch somebody die in-Territory, somebody who could be saved by surgical techniques. I see people survive, only to live crippled because we don’t have those techniques. Sometimes—sometimes they’re my patients, people I’m responsible for. And all the time I know that the skills to save them are practiced routinely. And I know that I can learn those skills. And I watch my people die. I nearly died myself, when I was fourteen.”
There was a silence. The two men who had dedicated their lives to medicine could not contemplate such a situation without sharing Digen’s feelings; and the Gens, projecting his feelings back at him, magnified them painfully.
“Yes,” said Branoff, “I can understand your single minded pursuit of surgery in that context. Nevertheless, my colleagues insist on seeing you as a threat. And they’re going to do everything they can think of to stop you. This may be a lot harder than you expect it to be.”
“I won’t know if I can do it until I try. I’m grateful to be allowed to try.”
Branoff eyed him thoughtfully, and then, seeming to come to a decision, said, “By shuffling schedules around, I’ve managed to put together a program for you that will give you a full six months on the surgical service, a lot more than a general intern usually gets.”
Digen brightened. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me,” said Branoff. “Thank Dr. Hogan, here. He gave up his own surgical internship and split his surgical ward time with you, so you’ll both have six months.”
Digen’s head whipped around to Hogan. “Why…?”
Their eyes locked for the first time since they had parted to board the train. Hogan flushed with embarrassment, and said in a deeper accent than usual, “I don’t like to see everybody gang up against one guy, is all. You deserve a chance like the rest of us.”
“Have you really thought this through?” asked Digen. “There’s such a power structure aligning against me—if you’re going to take my side, they’ll attack you too. It could ruin your career.”
Hogan’s eyes went to Branoff.
“They tried to buy him off,” said Branoff to Digen. “That was when he threw his appointment in their faces and stalked out of the interns’ meeting. I’m afraid you’ve got a friend whether you like it or not.”
“I’ve got a terrible temper,” said Hogan. “But in all my life I’ve never regretted anything I did on an angry impulse, and I don’t expect to regret this.”
Digen fell silent. An ally can be a terrible responsibility, he thought. Especially if he’s a Simephobe.
“Well, that’s settled, then,” said Branoff, shuffling his folders around. “Only one more item. We have twenty-four interns on staff this year, and only twelve rooms. I know I promised you a room to yourself, Dr. Farris, but the new building won’t be ready until late next spring, if then, so everybody has to double in the old building. When your assigned roommate found out who he was doubling with, he started this whole thing. So I asked for volunteers. There was only one.”
“It’s all right with me, sir. I’ve been assigned to double with someone all through college and med school.” And then it dawned on him who the volunteer would be. He eyed Hogan apprehensively. The last two years his roommate had been a Third Order Donor, and it had been no strain at all. He was used to the luxury.
“Yeah,” said Hogan. “Who else?”
Biting his lip, Digen said, “There’s another way. I’ve already been assigned quarters in the Sime Center residence tower—the new one, on this side of the center. It’s hardly a ten minute walk away, and I can have a direct phone patch put in.”
“That would be the most reasonable solution to the problem,” said Branoff. “However, the men who sit on the accreditation board were raised in the days when medicine was taught like a religion of revealed secrets. And those rules are still on the books. All interns, like medical students, have to reside on the grounds of the hospital in regulated and inspected accommodations. And in Westfield, we regulate and inspect to the letter.”
Digen understood part of the rationale for that. Medicine had borne most of the blame, in the popular Gen mind, for the
mutation of the human race into Sime and Gen. The irresponsible use of drugs and certification of chemicals as safe for release to the environment had come about, people had believed, through the low moral standards of the men of medicine. The medical profession was determined to see that they were never blamed again.
Branoff said, “I know it’s ridiculous to hold you to the residency rule after you’ve already been through four years of it. But in your case, with more than half the medical profession just aching for an excuse to dismiss you, any request for special treatment, any bending of the rules, will be due cause for dismissal. If it has to come, I’d rather it came over some significant issue, something related to your competency as a surgeon, not your popularity among ignorant Gens.”
“That’s another thing, Digen,” said Hogan. “When they get to know you, I don’t think they’ll be so frightened. Give it some time.”
All because I saved his life—doing nothing more than my job? “You don’t know me,” said Digen.
“I’ve spent all winter studying up on you, ever since I found out you’d be here. Fifteen biographies, in English alone, and every translated article I could lay hands on. And—we met in Sorelton. I believe the biographies now.”
Digen got up and paced around behind Hogan’s chair. Need was driving him to an insuppressible restlessness. He came in front of Hogan and half sat against the desk. “I don’t think you really appreciate all you’d be getting into. I don’t wear retainers in my room. I have a Diplomatic Corps sign I post on the door that makes it legally Sime Territory. I’ve been using it since I was a high school exchange student and lived in a Gen house. I couldn’t survive any other way. About ten hours in retainers is my limit.”
Hogan said, “I thought you wanted to be a surgeon. But you keep trying to slam the door in your own face. Don’t you have the courage of your convictions?”
“Of course I…!” Digen bit off the retort. His Need made him altogether too sensitive for such a discussion. “I’m sorry,” he said, and went on in a cooler tone, “Joel, you have no idea how many times my courage has been tested since I started this, or in what ways. I’m used to opposition. I’m not used to help.”
Branoff broke in. “So accept the offer gracefully, and go somewhere to work out your modus vivendi. I’ve got work to do, and you’ve only got three hours before you go on duty in the emergency ward.”
CHAPTER FOUR
HONEST CONFRONTATION
As they made their way through the hospital, Digen tried to get Hogan to admit his mixed motives. But the more Digen insisted, the more evasive Hogan became.
They got off the elevator on the top floor. Hogan began to stroll down the hall, gnawing his bottom lip. “I’ve never met anyone like you before, Digen. This actually may be a lot harder than I ever thought.” An honest belligerence crystallized in the Gen. Moving with exaggerated slowness for a Sime, Digen came to Hogan’s side, and reached to touch his shoulder firmly, but gently enough not to frighten. Inside, Digen was coiled to peak alertness. In his condition, he had to be very careful. “Joel.”
The Gen stopped at the intersection of two corridors, permitting the touch, but inwardly shrinking from Digen. “It’s true. I’m scared. You scare me. Simes scare me.”
“I’ve known that all along,” said Digen. “But I was afraid you didn’t know it. Now that you can admit it, to me, to yourself, we can begin. An honest friendship. No deceptions.”
Hogan looked at Digen. “But how can you—I tried to tell myself I wasn’t afraid because—I—Isn’t Gen fear…?”
Digen could almost read the Gen’s mind in the silence. Digen tightened his grip, touching the Gen’s hand with the fingers of his other hand. “This is what channeling is all about—being exposed to a Gen’s fear and just not reacting.”
Hogan stared at Digen’s fingers, at the retainers visible at his cuffs. Digen said, “Somehow, I don’t think the corridor is the best place to discuss this.”
Hogan pulled himself up, composed his face into its usual long planes, and said, “Our room is number ten, at the end around the corner.”
They walked into the side hall, passing between rows of doors to interns’ rooms. As they neared the end, one room door was ajar, a babble of voices spilling into the hall with hard, hollow echoes. Hogan said, “I have to get my things. The stationmaster sent yours up already. They’re in the room.”
Digen’s impulse was to follow Hogan into the room and help him carry things. But, even though he was still keyed up, guarding himself, he didn’t want to dive into the ambient nager of that room, choked with hostility as it was. He knew he still had a long way to go with Hogan this afternoon and he couldn’t afford to overtax himself.
Knocking perfunctorily on the door, Hogan went in. The room fell silent. Digen was able to distinguish eleven Gens in the room. Hogan said to them, “It’s all settled. I’m rooming with him, so he’s staying.”
“Not for long,” said somebody.
“You’re making a mistake,” said another.
“We’ll see,” answered Hogan levelly.
In a moment Hogan emerged, dragging a footlocker with two large cases stacked on it. Bracing himself, Digen stepped into the direct line from the open door, reaching for the handle of an enormous, old fashioned record player and a dilapidated old suitcase. He heaved the suitcase to the floor and picked up the footlocker before Hogan really understood what he was doing. “I’ll take these two,” said Digen. “Why didn’t you say you had so much?”
Their colleagues clustered around the door to watch them move to the end room. As they went, one of the interns whistled faintly an unsavory little tune associated with anti-Sime jokes. Digen, without turning his head, tried to discern which of them was whistling, but the mixed nager was impenetrable through the retainers. Hogan, red-faced, did not look back.
Digen was grateful to close the door behind them. He set the two heaviest items down—he had been augmenting slightly to manage the weight, and it left him lightheaded, a bit keyed up—and leaned against the door, saying. “Now, this is a lovely room, at least twice the size of theirs.”
“It’s the only one with its own bathroom, too. They didn’t want you sharing the communal facilities.”
Digen nodded. “Figures. Well, which bed do you want?”
“Flip for it?”
“No, you pick. I don’t really care.”
“I don’t like drafts in the winter,” said Hogan. “You take the window side?”
“Fine,” said Digen. He was already unlatching his largest suitcase. “Last thing packed, first thing unpacked,” said Digen, pulling his Diplomatic Corps sign out of the case. “I’ll tack this up now, with your permission.”
Hogan looked at it. He knew what it was, and what it implied. Digen let him look, waiting. The anxiety was there again. It had to be faced down or life would be intolerable—for both of them.
Hogan said, with a glance in the direction of the hall, “I’ll do it for you. I have a little hammer.”
He bent to where he’d unbuckled the strapping from his old case and pulled out a small household hammer. As a Sime, Digen was somewhat horrified of the idea of a Gen wielding a hammer—they hit their own fingers far too often for any Sime to watch with peace of mind. But he understood the gesture Hogan was making.
The noise would bring all eyes to the sign poster, and Hogan wanted them to see him doing it. It was sheer bravado. But it was necessary to Hogan just then.
Digen handed him the ornate plaque and watched him go out the door. This Gen is going to make me a nervous wreck one way or another, I can see that now.
As he listened to the tapping, waiting to feel the lancing shock of a hit finger, Digen bent to gather handfuls of underwear and install them in the drawers of the dresser on his side of the room. Somebody had left a candy bar in the top drawer and it had melted.
He chucked the things on the bed and collapsed into the desk chair, gritting his teeth until Hogan finished his deliber
ate pounding and came in. Seeing Digen’s droop-shouldered dejection, he asked, “What’s the matter?”
Digen pointed at the mess. “It’s one of those days.”
Hogan made an indescribable sound. “Well, see if you can get the whole drawer under the bathtub faucet.” He went toward the window. “Look, we can put it on the roof and later the sun will hit it, and it’ll be dry by morning. I don’t think they’ll inspect us until then.”
Digen looked toward the window. “Good idea. Why didn’t I think of that?” He knew, of course, why he hadn’t. Need. The depression. The monomania. The total lack of enthusiasm for anything not directly connected with satisfying Need made him feel that even his thoughts were weighted with lead.
Knowing where it came from made it just a little easier to deal with. He took out a notebook and pen, surveying the room, listing what had to be accomplished within the next few hours. The beds were, of course, unmade, linens stacked at the bottoms. Uniforms would have to be picked up at the laundry, and Digen’s would have to be altered to accommodate the bulky retainers. The sticky drawer had to be cleaned, and the clothing unpacked and readied for inspection, just as in school. And it would be nice to squeeze in time for a shower. In fact, it was essential.
But first, to get rid of the retainers.
Hogan stood at the window, back to Digen, inspecting the view of the Sime Center next door and the new Sime residence tower jutting up over some trees. Digen took the opportunity to shed his retainers.
But retainers were not designed to be removed unobtrusively. The catches came open with a snap like thunder in the quiet room. Hogan turned, startled at first by the noise and then with growing alarm as he saw what Digen was doing.
With the catches released, the seals sliced open along the insides of Digen’s forearms. The first searing flash of Hogan’s uncut nager lanced through Digen’s whole body, paralyzing him. He could sense the Gen’s eyes riveted to the sparkling metal.
Unto Zeor, Forever Page 4