organisms are pathogens when they invade soft tissues. Your resistance is poor: low proteins, practically no gamma at all; and your assortment of white blood cells is weak. You’d better soak.’
Wandee added a few drops of a brown antiseptic to a pan of hot water and motioned him into a chair. Her haste worried him. He studied his foot more closely and saw the fain red line between the toes – blood poisoning.
‘I wish we had a systemic anti-infective agent to give you,’ she said. ‘Your white cells have toxic granules already. I’d hate to see you lose that leg.’
Several hours later the White Meck stabbed him again. Spinner’s printout now appeared more optimistic.
Drum rested on the floor in a bed of rags. His foot was elevated on a box. Wandee changed hot compresses while he dozed.
‘I’ll fix you a nice perishable sandwich,’ she said. He opened one eye and watched her pour thick green water through a filter. The resultant paste was spread on a standard white tube sandwich. The flavour was different – interesting.
‘Watercress cell culture,’ she explained. ‘It will replace your bioflavinoids.’
Medimeck blinked a light. Its lingual readout was not functioning, but his progress was recorded by Spinner.
‘Having your own White Meck is nice and handy,’ he observed. ‘Many more like him on the junk heap?’
‘Not salvageable. When their chassis circuits go senile they are stripped and dumped. This one was different – a punitive junking. All I had to add was what you see here: power source, memory bins, some rebuilt appendages – and Spinner’s readout.’
‘Punitive junking?’
‘Yes. Saving the unauthorized. You know how anxious the White Team is when it comes to saving lives. This meck came up with the bright idea of building a catcher’s mitt in one of the digester chutes. Caught unauthorized infants on their way to the protein pool. Lives were saved, and the meck had a very high quota. But he was caught when the caloric output of the chute dropped. They found his catcher’s mitt and convicted him. His genius circuit was pulled and he was sent down here. That was over ten years ago.’
Drum studied the chassis. It appeared relatively new. ‘You trust him?’
She nodded. ‘All he wants to do is save lives. He just doesn’t understand about red tape. Well, there’s none of that down here. He helps the Gene Spinner with our project: marine biota.’
‘An important job for a junked meck.’
Wandee waved her arms in frustration. ‘You certainly can’t tell it is important from my budget.’
They painted Drum’s toes brown with a stinging astringent and he pulled on his shoe carefully.
‘It should be OK,’ she said.
He limped back to the barracks thinking that Wandee was certainly a concerned Citizen – considering she had not matured sexually.
The alarm aroused the Wet Crew: ‘Bad Gas!’
Ode studied the wall diagrams in the control room. Gas symbols appeared as fumes tripped pipe sensors.
‘It’s in the city across the sump. Looks like a day for masks,’ said Ode.
Drum nodded. ‘What kind of gas?’
Ode squinted at the symbols. ‘Chlorine and ozone so far. One of that city’s Vent Mecks didn’t get his man-minute on time so he went off-line. You know how those Life-Support Mecks are: temperamental. Its laminar flow generator went out of phase and the city stopped breathing. The symbols show no breathable oxygen in the cloud. It would kill anything.’
‘Anything?’
‘Anything that needed oxygen. Why? Oh. The bedding . . .’
The two Nebishes left the control room with a grin. They rolled up their bedding and carried it out on the landing. The sewer lights had lost their orange tint and their eyes burned. ‘Better mask up,’ said the cyber-dinghy. They tossed the soft bedrolls on to the boat’s cargo rack and snapped bulky gas masks over their faces. The dinghy followed their instructions, lurching through the scum with sensors alert. Floating
Wandee added a few drops of a brown antiseptic to a pan of hot water and motioned him into a chair. Her haste worried him. He studied his foot more closely and saw the fain red line between the toes – blood poisoning.
‘I wish we had a systemic anti-infective agent to give you,’ she said. ‘Your white cells have toxic granules already. I’d hate to see you lose that leg.’
Several hours later the White Meck stabbed him again. Spinner’s printout now appeared more optimistic.
Drum rested on the floor in a bed of rags. His foot was elevated on a box. Wandee changed hot compresses while he dozed.
‘I’ll fix you a nice perishable sandwich,’ she said. He opened one eye and watched her pour thick green water through a filter. The resultant paste was spread on a standard white tube sandwich. The flavour was different – interesting.
‘Watercress cell culture,’ she explained. ‘It will replace your bioflavinoids.’
Medimeck blinked a light. Its lingual readout was not functioning, but his progress was recorded by Spinner.
‘Having your own White Meck is nice and handy,’ he observed. ‘Many more like him on the junk heap?’
‘Not salvageable. When their chassis circuits go senile they are stripped and dumped. This one was different – a punitive junking. All I had to add was what you see here: power source, memory bins, some rebuilt appendages – and Spinner’s readout.’
‘Punitive junking?’
‘Yes. Saving the unauthorized. You know how anxious the White Team is when it comes to saving lives. This meck came up with the bright idea of building a catcher’s mitt in one of the digester chutes. Caught unauthorized infants on their way to the protein pool. Lives were saved, and the meck had a very high quota. But he was caught when the caloric output of the chute dropped. They found his catcher’s mitt and convicted him. His genius circuit was pulled and he was sent down here. That was over ten years ago.’
Drum studied the chassis. It appeared relatively new. ‘You trust him?’
She nodded. ‘All he wants to do is save lives. He just doesn’t understand about red tape. Well, there’s none of that down here. He helps the Gene Spinner with our project: marine biota.’
‘An important job for a junked meck.’
Wandee waved her arms in frustration. ‘You certainly can’t tell it is important from my budget.’
They painted Drum’s toes brown with a stinging astringent and he pulled on his shoe carefully.
‘It should be OK,’ she said.
He limped back to the barracks thinking that Wandee was certainly a concerned Citizen – considering she had not matured sexually.
The alarm aroused the Wet Crew: ‘Bad Gas!’
Ode studied the wall diagrams in the control room. Gas symbols appeared as fumes tripped pipe sensors.
‘It’s in the city across the sump. Looks like a day for masks,’ said Ode.
Drum nodded. ‘What kind of gas?’
Ode squinted at the symbols. ‘Chlorine and ozone so far. One of that city’s Vent Mecks didn’t get his man-minute on time so he went off-line. You know how those Life-Support Mecks are: temperamental. Its laminar flow generator went out of phase and the city stopped breathing. The symbols show no breathable oxygen in the cloud. It would kill anything.’
‘Anything?’
‘Anything that needed oxygen. Why? Oh. The bedding . . .’
The two Nebishes left the control room with a grin. They rolled up their bedding and carried it out on the landing. The sewer lights had lost their orange tint and their eyes burned. ‘Better mask up,’ said the cyber-dinghy. They tossed the soft bedrolls on to the boat’s cargo rack and snapped bulky gas masks over their faces. The dinghy followed their instructions, lurching through the scum with sensors alert. Floating
Similar Books
