Major Operation sg-3 Page 4

  Conway felt weary and discouraged and stupid, but mostly weary. It was too near breakfast time, however, to go to bed.

  After his rounds Conway had an early lunch with Mannon and Prilicla, then accompanied the doctor to O’Mara’s office while the empath left for the Hudlar theater to monitor the emotional radiation of the staff during their preparations. The Chief Psychologist looked a little tired, which was unusual, and rather grumpy, which was usually a good sign.

  “Are you assisting Senior Physician Mannon in this operation, Doctor?”

  “No, sir, observing,” Conway replied. “But from inside the theater. If anything funny is going on — I mean, the Hudlar tape might confuse me and I want to be as alert as possible—”

  “Alert, he says.” O’Mara’s tone was scathing. “You look asleep on your feet.” To Mannon he said, “You will be relieved to know that I, too, am beginning to suspect something funny is going on, and this time I’ll be observing from the observation blister. And now if you’ll lie on the couch, Mannon, I’ll give you the Hudlar tape myself …

  Mannon sat on the edge of the low couch. His knees were nearly level with his chin and he had half-folded his arms across his chest so that his posture was almost a fetal position, sitting up. When he spoke his tone was pleading, desperate. He said, “Look. I’ve worked with empaths and telepaths before. Empaths receive but do not project emotion, and telepaths can only communicate with other telepaths of their own species-they’ve tried occasionally, but all they did was give me a slight mental itch. But that day in the theater I was in complete mental control of myself-f am absolutely sure of this! Yet you all keep trying to tell me that something unsubstantial, invisible and undetectable influenced my judgment. It would be much simpler if you admitted that this thing you’re looking for is nonexistent as well, but you’re all too damned—”

  “Excuse me,” said O’Mara, pushing Mannon backward and lowering the massive helmet into position. He spent a few minutes positioning the electrodes, then switched on. Mannon’s eyes began to glaze as the memories and experience of one of the greatest Hudlar physicians who had ever lived flooded into his brain.

  Just before he lost consciousness completely he muttered, “My trouble is that no matter what I say or do, you believe only the best about me …

  Two hours later they were in the theater. Mannon wore a heavy operating suit and Conway a lighter type which relied only on its gravity neutralizers for protection. The G-plates under the floor were set for a pull of five gravities, the Hudlar normal, but the pressure was only a fraction higher than the Earth norm-Hudlars were not unduly bothered by low pressure and could, in fact, work quite without protection in the vacuum of space. But if something went disastrously wrong and the patient needed full, home-planet pressure, Conway would have to leave in a hurry. Conway had a direct line to Prilicla and O’Mara in the observation blister and another, and completely separate, channel linking him with Mannon and the operating staff.

  O’Mara’s voice crackled suddenly in his ear-piece. “Prilicla is getting emotional echoes, Doctor. Also the radiation indicative of a minor error having been made-minor level anxiety and confusion …

  “Yehudi is here,” said Conway softly.

  “What?”

  “The little man who isn’t there,” Conway replied, and went on, misquoting slightly, “The little man upon the stair. He isn’t there again today, Oh, gee I wish he’d go away …

  O’Mara grunted, then said, “Despite what I told Mannon in my office there is still no real proof that anything untoward is happening. My remarks then were designed to help both Doctor and patient by bolstering Mannon’s weakening self-confidence-something which they failed to do. So it would be better for Mannon and yourself if your little man came in and introduced himself.”

  The patient was brought in at that moment and transferred to the table. Mannon’s hands, projecting from the heavy arms of the suit, were encased only in thin, transparent plastic, but should full Hudlar pressure become necessary he could snap on heavy gauntlets within a few seconds. But to open a Hudlar at all in these conditions was to cause an immediate decompression, so that the subsequent procedures had to be done quickly.

  Physiological classification FROB, the Hudlar was a low, squat, immensely powerful being somewhat reminiscent of an armadillo with a tegument like flexible armor plate. Inside and out the Hudlars were tough-so much so that Hudlar medical science was a almost complete stranger to surgery. If a patient could not be cured by medication very often it could not be cured at all, because surgery on that planet was impracticable if not downright impossible. But in Sector General, where pressure and gravity of any desired combination could be produced at a few minutes notice, Mannon and a few others had been nibbling at the edges of the hitherto impossible.

  Conway watched him make a triangular incision in the incredibly tough tegument and clamp back the flap. Immediately a bright yellow, inverted cone of mist flicked into being above the operative field-a fine spray of blood under pressure escaping from the severed capillaries. A nurse quickly interposed a sheet of plastic between the opening and Mannon s visor while another positioned a mirror which gave him an indirect view of the operative field. In four and a half minutes he had controlled the bleeding. He should have done it in two.

  Mannon seemed to be reading Conway’s mind, because he said, “The first time was faster than this-I was thinking two or three moves ahead, you know how it is. But I found I was making incisions now that I shouldn’t have made until several seconds later. If it had happened once it would have been bad enough, but five times …! I had to withdraw before I killed the patient there and then.

  “And now,” he added in a voice thick with self-loathing, “I’m trying to be careful and the result will be the same.

  Conway remained silent.

  “Such a piddling little growth, too,” Mannon went on. “So near the surface and a natural for the first attempt at Hudlar surgery. Simply cut away the growth, encase the three severed blood vessels in the area with plastic tubing, and the patient’s blood pressure and our special clamps should make a perfect seal until the veins regenerate in a few months. But this …! Have you ever seen such a botched-up mess …

  More than half of the growth, a grayish, spongy mass which seemed to be more than half vegetable, remained in position. Five major blood vessels in the area had been severed-two of necessity, the rest by “accident"-and encased in tubing. But these lengths of artificial vein were too short or insecurely clamped-or perhaps the movement of the heart had pulled one of the vessels partially out of its tube. The only thing which had saved the patient’s life had been Mannon’s insistence that it was not to be allowed to regain consciousness since the first operation. The slightest physical effort could have pulled one of those vessels free of its tubing and caused a massive internal hemorrhage and, with the tremendous pulse rate and pressure of the Hudlar species, death within a few minutes.

  On O’Mara’s channel Conway said harshly, “Any echoes? Anything at all?”

  “Nothing,” said O’Mara.

  “This is ridiculous!” Conway burst out. “If there is an intelligence, disembodied or otherwise, it should possess the attributes-curiosity, the ability to use tools, and so on. Now this hospital is a large and interesting place, with no barriers we know of to the movements of the entity we are trying to find. Why then had it stayed in one place? Why didn’t it go prowling around Descartes? What makes it stay in this area? Is it frightened, or stupid, or disembodied even?

  “There is little likelihood of finding a complex technology on Meatball,” Conway went on quickly, “but a good chance of them being well advanced in the philosophical sciences. If something physical boarded Descartes, there is a definite lower limit to the mass of an intelligent being …

  “If you want to ask questions of anyone, Doctor,” O’Mara said quietly, “I will throw a little of my weight behind them. But there isn’t much time.”

  Conway thoug
ht for a moment, then said, “Thank you, sir. I’d like you to get Murchison for me. She’s in—”

  “At a time like this,” said O’Mara in a dangerous voice, “he wants to call his …

  “She’s with Harrison at the moment,” said Conway. “I want to establish a physical connection between the Lieutenant and this theater, even though he has never been within fifty levels of the place. Would you ask her to ask him …

  It was a long, involved, many-sided question, designed to tell him how a small, intelligent life-form had reached this area without detection. It was also a stupid question because any intelligence which affected the minds of Earth-humans and e-ts alike could not have remained undetected with an empath like Prilicla around. Which left him back where he started with a nonmaterial something which refused, or was incapable of, moving beyond the environs of the theater.

  “Harrison says he had lots of delusions during the trip back,” O’Mara’s voice sounded suddenly. “He says the ship’s doctor said this was normal considering all the dope he had in him. He also says he was completely out when he arrived here and doesn’t know how or where he came in. And now I suppose we contact Reception, Doctor. I’m patching you in, just in case I ask the wrong questions …

  Seconds later a slow, flat, translated voice which could have belonged to anything said, “Lieutenant Harrison was not processed in the usual way. Being a corpsman whose medical background was known in detail he was admitted to Service Lock Fifteen into the charge of Major Edwards.

  Edwards was not available, but his office promised O’Mara that they would have him in a few minutes.

  All at once Conway felt like giving up. Lock Fifteen was too far away-a difficult, complicated journey involving three major changes of environment. For their hypothetical invader, who was also a stranger to the hospital, to find its way to this theater would have necessitated it taking mental control of someone and being carried. But if that was the case Prilicla would have detected its presence. Prilicla could detect anything which thought-from the smallest insect to the slow emanations of a mind deeply and totally unconscious. No living thing could shut its mind down completely and still be alive.

  Which meant that the invader might not be alive!

  A few feet distant Mannon had signaled for a nurse to stand by the pressure cock. A sudden return to Hudlar normal pressure would diminish the violence of any bleeding which might occur, but it would also make it impossible for Mannon to operate without heavy gloves. Not only that, the pressure increase would cause the operative field to subside within the opening, where movement transmitted from the nearby heart would make delicate work impossible. At present, despite the danger of a wrong incision, the complex of blood vessels was distended, separate and relatively motionless.

  Suddenly it happened. Bright yellow blood spurted out, so violently that it hit Mannon’s visor with an audible slap. Driven by the patient’s enormous blood pressure and pulse rate the severed vein whipped about like a miniature unheld hose-pipe. Mannon got to it, lost it, tried again. The spurting became a thin, wavering spray and stopped. The nurse at the pressure cock relaxed visibly while the one at Mannon’s side cleaned his visor.

  Mannon moved back slightly while the field was sucked clear. Through the visor his eyes glittered oddly in the sweating white mask of his face. Time was important now. Hudlars were tough, but there were limits-they could not stand decompression indefinitely. There would be a gradual movement of body fluid toward the opening in the tegument, a strain on vital organs in the vicinity and an even greater increase in blood pressure. To be successful the operation could not last for much more than thirty minutes and more than half the time had gone merely in opening up the seat of the trouble. Even if the growth was removed, its removal entailed damage to underlying blood vessels which had to be repaired with great care before Mannon withdrew.

  They all knew that speed was essential, but to Conway it seemed suddenly as if he was watching a film which was steadily being speeded up. Mannon’s hands were moving faster than Conway had ever seen them move before. And faster still.

  “I don’t like this,” said O’Mara harshly. “It looks like he’s regained his confidence, but more likely that he’s ceased caring-about himself, that is. He still cares about the patient, obviously, even though he knows it hasn’t much chance. And the tragic thing about it is that it never did have much chance, Thornnastor tells me. If it hadn’t been for your hypothetical friend’s interference Mannon wouldn’t have worried too much about losing this patient-it would have been one of his very few failures. When he made that first slip it wrecked his self-confidence and now he’s—”

  “Something made him slip,” said Conway firmly.

  “You’ve tried convincing him of that, with what result?” the psychologist snapped back. He went on, “Prilicla is seriously agitated and its shakes are getting worse by the minute. But Mannon is, or was, a pretty stable type I don’t think he’ll crack until after the operation. Though with these serious, dedicated types whose profession is their whole life it’s hard to say what might happen.”

  “Edwards here,” said a new voice. “What is it?”

  “Go ahead, Conway,” said the psychologist. “You ask the questions. Right now I’ve other things on my mind.”

  The spongy growth had been lifted clear, but a great many small blood vessels had been severed to accomplish this and the job of repairing them would be much more difficult than anything which had gone before. Insinuating the severed ends into the tubing, far enough so that they would not simply squirm out again when circulation was restored, was a difficult, repetitious, nerve-wracking procedure.

  There were only eighteen minutes left.

  “I remember Harrison well,” the distant Edwards replied when Conway had explained what he wanted to know. “His suit was damaged in the leg section only, so we couldn’t write it off-those things carry a full set of tools and survival gear and are expensive. And naturally we decontaminated it! The regulations expressly state that—”

  “It still may have been a carrier of some kind, Major,” Conway said quickly. “How thoroughly did you carry out this decon—”

  “Thoroughly,” said the Major, beginning to sound annoyed. “If it was carrying any kind of bug or parasite it is defunct now. The suit together with all its attachments was sterilized with high-pressure steam and irradiated-it went through the same sterilization procedure as your surgical instruments, in fact. Does that satisfy you, Doctor?”

  “Yes,” said Conway softly. “Yes indeed.”

  He now had the link-up between Meatball and the operating theater, via Harrison’s suit and the sterilization chamber. But that wasn’t all he had. He had Yehudi!

  Beside him Mannon had stopped. The surgeon’s hands were trembling as he said desperately, “I need eight pairs of hands, or instruments that can do eight different operations at once. This isn’t going well, Conway. Not well at all …

  “Don’t do anything for a minute, Doctor,” Conway said urgently, then began calling out instructions for the nurses to file past him carrying their instrument trays. O’Mara started shouting to know what was going on, but Conway was concentrating too hard to answer him. Then one of the Kelgian nurses made a noise like a foghorn breathing in, the DBLF equivalent of a shriek of surprise, because suddenly there was a medium sized box spanner among the forceps on her tray.

  “You won’t believe this,” said Conway joyfully as he carried the- thing-to Mannon and placed it in the surgeon’s hands, “but if you’ll just listen for a minute and then do as I tell you …

  Mannon was back at work in less than a minute.

  Hesitantly at first, but then with growing confidence and speed, he resumed the delicate repair work. Occasionally he whistled through his teeth or swore luridly, but this was normal behavior for Mannon during a difficult op which was promising to go well. In the observation blister Conway could see the happily scowling, baffled face of the Chief Psychologist and the fragile,
spidery body of the empath. Prilicla was still trembling, but very slowly. It was a type of reaction not often seen in a Cinrusskin off its native planet, indicating a nearby source of emotional radiation which was intense and altogether pleasant.

  After the operation they had all wanted to question Harrison about Meatball, but before they could do so Conway had first to explain what had happened again to the Lieutenant.

  “… And while we still have no idea what they look like,” Conway was saying, “we do know that they are highly intelligent and in their own fashion technically advanced. By that I mean they fashion and use tools …

  “Indeed yes,” said Mannon dryly, and the thing in his hand became a metallic sphere, a miniature bust of Beethoven and a set of Tralthan dentures. Since it had become certain that the Hudlar would be another one of Mannon’s successes rather than a failure he had begun to regain his sense of humor.

  … But the tool-making stage must have followed a long way after the development of the philosophical sciences,” Conway went on. “The imagination boggles at the conditions in which they evolved. These tools are not designed for manual use, the natives may not possess hands as we know them. But they have minds …

  Under the mental control of its owner the “tool” had cut a way into Descartes beside Harrison’s station, but during the sudden takeoff it had been unable to get back and a new source of mental control, the Lieutenant, had unwittingly taken over. It had become the foothold which Harrison had needed so badly, only to give under his weight because it had not really been part of the ship’s structure. When the attachments of Harrison’s suit had been sterilized in the same room as the surgical instruments and when a nurse had come looking for a certain instrument for the theater, it again became what was wanted.

  From then on there was confusion over instrument counts and falling scalpels which did not cut and sprayers which behaved oddly indeed, and Mannon had used a knife which had followed his mind instead of his hands, with near-fatal results for the patient. But the second time it happened Mannon knew that he was holding a small, unspecialized, all purpose tool which was subject to mental as well as manual control, and some of the shapes he had made it take and the things he had made it do would make Conway remember that operation for the rest of his life.