Conway,” the annunciator was saying briskly, “Go to room 87 and administer pep-shots …”
“But 87 isn’t even in our section!” Conway protested. “What’s going on here … ?”
Dr. Mannon had become suddenly grim. “I think I know,” he said, “and I advise you to keep a few of those shots for yourself because you are going to need them.” He turned abruptly and hurried off, muttering something about getting a fast erasure before they started screaming for him, too.
Room 87 was the Casualty Section’s staff recreation room, and when Conway arrived its tables, chairs and even parts of its floor were asprawl with green-clad Monitors, some of whom had not the energy to lift their heads when he came in. One figure pushed itself out of a chair with extreme difficulty and weaved toward him. It was another Monitor with a Major’s insignia on his shoulders and the Staff and Serpents on his collar. He said, “Maximum dosage. Start with me,” and began shrugging out of his tunic.
Conway looked around the room. There must have been nearly a hundred of them, all in stages of advanced exhaustion and their faces showing that tell-tale gray coloration. He still did not feel well disposed toward Monitors, but these were, after a fashion, patients, and his duty was clear.
“As a doctor I advise strongly against this,” Conway said gravely. “It’s obvious that you’ve had pep-shots already—far too many of them. What you need is sleep—”
“Sleep?” said a voice somewhere. “What’s that?”
“Quiet, Teirnan,” said the Major tiredly, then to Conway; “And as a doctor I understand the risks. I suggest we waste no more time.”
Rapidly and expertly Conway set about administering the shots. Dull-eyed, bone-weary men lined up before him and five minutes later left the room with a spring in their step and their eyes too bright with artificial vitality. He had just finished when he heard his name over the annunciator again, ordering him to Lock Six to await instructions there. Lock
Six, Conway knew, was one of the subsidiary entrances to the Casualty section.
While he was hurrying in that direction Conway realized suddenly that he was tired and hungry, but he did not get the chance to think about it for long. The annunciators were giving out a call for all junior interns to report to Casualty, and directions for adjacent wards to be evacuated where possible to other accommodation. An alien gabble interspersed these messages as other species received similar instructions.
Obviously the Casualty section was being extended. But why, and where were all the casualties coming from? Conway’s mind was a confused and rather tired question mark.
V
At Lock Six a Tralthan Diagnostician was deep in conversation with two Monitors. Conway felt a sense of outrage at the sight of the highest and the lowest being so chummy together, then reflected with a touch of bitterness that nothing about this place could surprise him anymore. There were two more Monitors beside the Lock’s direct vision panel.
“Hello, Doctor,” one of them said pleasantly. He nodded toward the viewport. “They’re unloading at Locks Eight, Nine and Eleven. We’ll be getting our quota any minute now.”
The big transparent panel framed an awesome sight: Conway had never seen so many ships together at one time. More than thirty sleek, silver needles, ranging from ten-man pleasure yachts to the gargantuan transports of the Monitor Corps wove a slowly, complicated pattern in and around each other as they waited permission to lock-on and unload.
“Tricky work, that,” the Monitor observed.
Conway agreed. The repulsion fields which protected ships against collision with the various forms of cosmic detritus required plenty of space. Meteorite screens had to be set up a minimum of five miles away from the ship they protected if heavenly bodies large and small were to be successfully deflected from them—further away if it was a
“But 87 isn’t even in our section!” Conway protested. “What’s going on here … ?”
Dr. Mannon had become suddenly grim. “I think I know,” he said, “and I advise you to keep a few of those shots for yourself because you are going to need them.” He turned abruptly and hurried off, muttering something about getting a fast erasure before they started screaming for him, too.
Room 87 was the Casualty Section’s staff recreation room, and when Conway arrived its tables, chairs and even parts of its floor were asprawl with green-clad Monitors, some of whom had not the energy to lift their heads when he came in. One figure pushed itself out of a chair with extreme difficulty and weaved toward him. It was another Monitor with a Major’s insignia on his shoulders and the Staff and Serpents on his collar. He said, “Maximum dosage. Start with me,” and began shrugging out of his tunic.
Conway looked around the room. There must have been nearly a hundred of them, all in stages of advanced exhaustion and their faces showing that tell-tale gray coloration. He still did not feel well disposed toward Monitors, but these were, after a fashion, patients, and his duty was clear.
“As a doctor I advise strongly against this,” Conway said gravely. “It’s obvious that you’ve had pep-shots already—far too many of them. What you need is sleep—”
“Sleep?” said a voice somewhere. “What’s that?”
“Quiet, Teirnan,” said the Major tiredly, then to Conway; “And as a doctor I understand the risks. I suggest we waste no more time.”
Rapidly and expertly Conway set about administering the shots. Dull-eyed, bone-weary men lined up before him and five minutes later left the room with a spring in their step and their eyes too bright with artificial vitality. He had just finished when he heard his name over the annunciator again, ordering him to Lock Six to await instructions there. Lock
Six, Conway knew, was one of the subsidiary entrances to the Casualty section.
While he was hurrying in that direction Conway realized suddenly that he was tired and hungry, but he did not get the chance to think about it for long. The annunciators were giving out a call for all junior interns to report to Casualty, and directions for adjacent wards to be evacuated where possible to other accommodation. An alien gabble interspersed these messages as other species received similar instructions.
Obviously the Casualty section was being extended. But why, and where were all the casualties coming from? Conway’s mind was a confused and rather tired question mark.
V
At Lock Six a Tralthan Diagnostician was deep in conversation with two Monitors. Conway felt a sense of outrage at the sight of the highest and the lowest being so chummy together, then reflected with a touch of bitterness that nothing about this place could surprise him anymore. There were two more Monitors beside the Lock’s direct vision panel.
“Hello, Doctor,” one of them said pleasantly. He nodded toward the viewport. “They’re unloading at Locks Eight, Nine and Eleven. We’ll be getting our quota any minute now.”
The big transparent panel framed an awesome sight: Conway had never seen so many ships together at one time. More than thirty sleek, silver needles, ranging from ten-man pleasure yachts to the gargantuan transports of the Monitor Corps wove a slowly, complicated pattern in and around each other as they waited permission to lock-on and unload.
“Tricky work, that,” the Monitor observed.
Conway agreed. The repulsion fields which protected ships against collision with the various forms of cosmic detritus required plenty of space. Meteorite screens had to be set up a minimum of five miles away from the ship they protected if heavenly bodies large and small were to be successfully deflected from them—further away if it was a
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