Paingod And Other Delusions Part 12

"Look, Stu, they're infallible; they're safer and they can do a job quicker with less mess than even a-a Kohlbenschlagg. Right?"

Bergman nodded reluctantly, but there was a dangerous edge to his expression. "But at least Kohlbenschlagg, even with those thick-lensed gla.s.ses, was human. It wasn't like having a piece of-of-well, a piece of stovepipe rummaging around in a patient's stomach."

He shook his head sadly in remembrance. "Old Fritz couldn't take it. That's what killed him. Those d.a.m.ned machines. Playing intern to a phymech was too much for him. Oh h.e.l.l! You know what a grand heart that old man had, Murray. Fifty years in medicine and then to be barely allowed to hold sponge for a lousy tick-tock...and what was worse, knowing the tick-tock could hold the sponge more firmly with one of its pincers. That's what killed Old Fritz."

Bergman added softly, staring at his shaking hands, "And at that...he's the lucky one."

And then: "We're the d.a.m.ned of our culture, Murray; the kept men of medicine."

Thomas looked up startled, then annoyed. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Stuart, stop being melodramatic. Nothing of the sort. If a better scalpel comes along, do you refuse to discard the old issue because you've used it so long? Don't be an a.s.s."

"But we're not scalpels. We're men! We're doctors!" He was on his feet suddenly, as though the conversation had been physically building in him, forcing all explosion. The two whiskey gla.s.ses slipped and dumped as his thighs banged the table in rising. Bergman's voice was raised, and his temples throbbed, yet he was not screaming; even so, the words came out louder than any scream."For G.o.d's sake, Stu, sit down!" Thomas looked apprehensively around the Medical Center Lounge. "If the Head Resident should walk in, we'd both get our throats cut. Sit down, will you already!"

Bergman slumped slowly back onto the form seat. It depressed and flowed around him caressingly, and he squirmed in agony, as though it were strangling him. Even after he was fully seated, his shoulders continued rounding; his eyes were wild. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, his upper lip.

Thomas leaned forward, a frown creasing his mouth. "Take hold, Stu. Don't let a thing like this ruin you.

Better men than us have felt this way about it, but you can't stop progress. And losing your head, doing something crazy like that exhibition at the operation yesterday, won't do any of us any good. It's all we can do to maintain what rights we have left. It's a bad break for us, Stu, but it's good for the whole rest of the human race, and dammit man, they come before us. It's as simple as that."

He drew a handkerchief from his breast-pouch and mopped at the spreading twin pools of liquor, covertly watching Bergman from behind lowered lashes.

The sudden blare of a juke brought Bergman's head up, his nostrils Oaring. When he realized what it was, he subsided, the lights vanishing from his eyes.

He rested his head in his hand, rubbing slowly up and down the length of his nose. "How did it all start, Murray? I mean, all this?" He looked at the roaring juke that nearly drowned out conversation despite the hush-booth...the bar with its mechanical drink-interpolater-remarkable mnemonic circuits capable of mixing ten thousand different liquors flawlessly-and intoxication-estimater...the fully-mechanized hospital rearing huge outside the plasteel-fonted bar...robot physicians glimpsed occasionally pa.s.sing before a lighted window.

Windows showing light only because the human patients and fallible doctors needed it. The robots needed no light; they needed no fame, and no desire to help mankind. All they needed was their power-pack and an occasional oiling. In return for which they saved mankind.

Bergman's mind tossed the bitter irony about like a dog with a foul rag in its mouth.

Murray Thomas sighed softly, considered Bergman's question. He shook his head. "I don't know, Stu... The words paced themselves, emerging slowly, reluctantly. "Perhaps it was the automatic pilot, or the tactical computers they used in the Third War, or maybe even farther back than that; maybe it was as far back as electric sewing machines, and hydramatic shift cars and self-serve elevators. It was machines, and they worked better than humans.

That was it, pure and simple. A hunk of metal is nine times out of ten better than a fallible man."

Thomas considered what he had said, added definitely, "I'll take that back: ten times out of ten. There's nothing a cybernetics man can't build into one of those things now. It was inevitable they'd get around to taking human lives out of the hands of mere men." He looked embarra.s.sed for an instant at the length and tone of his reply, then sighed again and downed the last traces of his drink, running his tongue absently around the lip of the gla.s.s, tasting the dried liquid there.

Bergman's intensity seemed to pulse, grow stronger. He was obviously trying to find an answer to the problem of himself, within himself. He hunched further over, looking into his friend's face earnestly, almost boyishly, "But-but it doesn't seem tight, somehow. We've always depended on doctors-human doctors-to care for the sick and dying. It was a constant, Murray. A something you could depend on. In time of war a doctor was inviolate.

"In times of need-I know it sounds maudlin, Murray-for G.o.d's sake, in times of need a doctor was priest and father and teacher and patriot, and...and..."

He made futile motions with his hands, as though pleading the words to appear from the air. Then he continued in a stronger voice, from a memory ground into his mind: "I will keep pure and holy both my life and my art. In whatsoever houses I enter, I will enter to help the sick, and I will abstain from all intentional wrongdoing and harm. And whatsoever I shall see or hear in the course of my profession in my intercourse with men, if it be what should not be published abroad, I will never divulge, holding such things to be holy secrets.'"

Thomas's eyebrows rose slightly as his lips quirked in an unconscious smile. He had known Bergman would resort to the Oath eventually. Dedicated wasn't enough of a word to describe Stuart Bergman, it seemed. He was right, it was maudlin, and still...

Bergman continued. "What good is it all now? They've only had the phymechs a few years now, only a few, and they have them in solidly ...even though there are things about them they aren't sure about. So what good were all the years in school, in study, in tradition? We can't even go into the homes any more.'"

His face seemed to grow more haggard under the indirect gleam of the glaze lights in the Lounge; his hair seemed grayer than a moment before; the lines of his face were deeper. He swallowed nervously, ran a finger through the faint coating of wet left by the spilled drinks. "What kind of a practice is that? To carry slop-buckets? To be allowed to watch as the robots cut and sew our patients? To be kept behind gla.s.s at the big operations?

"To see the red lights flash on the hot board and know a mobilized monster is rolling faster than an ambulance to the scene? Is that what you're telling me I have to adjust to? Are you, Murray? Don't expect me to be as calm about it as you!"

"And most degrading of all: he added, as if to solidify his arguments, "to have them throw us a miserable appendectomy or stomach-pump job once a week. Like sc.r.a.ps from the table...and watch us while we do it! What are we, dogs? To be treated like pets? I tell you fm going crazy, Murray! I go home at night and find myself even cutting my steak as though it were heart tissue. Anything, anything at all, just to remind myself that I was trained for surgery.

My G.o.d! When I think of all the years, all the sweat, all the gutting and starving, just to come to this! Murray, where's it going to end?"He was on the verge of another scene like the one in the operating room observation bubble.

Whatever had happened when the Head Resident had examined Bergman-and it seemed to have been cleared up, for Bergman was still scheduled on the boards as phymech a.s.sistant, though his weekly operation had been set ahead three days-it wouldn't do to let it flare up again.

And Murray Thomas knew things were boiling inside his exschoolmate; he had no idea how long it would be before the lid blew off, ruining Bergman permanently.

"Calm down, Stuart: he said. "Let me dial you another drink..."

"Don't touch that G.o.ddam mechanical thing!" he roared, striking Thomas's hand from the interpolater dial.

He gasped raggedly. "There are some things a machine can't do. Machines brush my teeth in the morning, and they cook my food, and they lull me to sleep, but there must be something they can't do better than a human...otherwise why did G.o.d create humans? To be waited on by tin cans? I don't know what they are, but I swear there must be some abilities a human possesses that a robot doesn't. There must be something that makes a man more valuable than a whirring, clanking chunk of tin!" He stopped, out of breath. It was then that Calkins, the Head Resident, stepped around the panel separating the booths from the bar.

The Head Resident stood there silently, watching for a moment, like a hound on point. He fingered the lapel on his sport-jumper absently. "Getting a bit noisy, aren't you, Dr. Bergman?"

Stuart Bergman's face was alive with fear. His eyes lowered to his hands; entwined like serpents, seeking sanctuary in each other, white with the pressure of his clasping, his fingers writhed. "I-I was just, just, airing a few views...that's all, Dr. Calkins."

"Rather nasty views, I must say, Dr. Bergman. Might be construed as dissatisfaction with the way I'm handling things at Memorial. You wouldn't want anyone to think that, would you, Dr. Bergman?" His words had taken on the tone of command, of steel imbedded in rock.

Bergman shook his head quickly, slightly, nervously. "No. No, I didn't mean that at all, Dr. Calkins. I was just-well, you know. I thought perhaps if we physicians had a few more operations, a few more difficult..."

"Don't you think the phymechs are quite capable of handling any such, Dr. Bergman?"

There was an air of expectancy in his voice...waiting for Bergman to say the wrong thing. That's what you'd like, wouldn't you, Calkins? That's what you want! His thoughts spun sidewise, madly.

"I suppose so...yes, I know they are. It was, well, it's difficult to remember I'm a Doctor, not doing any work for so long and all and "That's about enough, Bergman!" snapped Calkins. "The government subsidized the phymechs, and they use taxpayers' money to keep them serviced and saving lives. They have a finer record than any human..."

Bergman broke in sharply. "But they haven't been fully tested or...

Calkins stared him into silence, replied, "If you want to remain on the payroll, remain in the hospital, Dr.

Bergman, even as an a.s.sistant, you'd better tone down and watch yourself, Bergman. We have our eyes on you."

"But I..."

"I said that's enough, Bergman!" Turning to Murray Thomas he added violently, " And r d watch who I keep company with, Thomas, ifl were you. That's all. Good evening." He strode off lightly, almost jauntily, arrogance in each step, leaving Bergman huddled in a corner of the booth, staring wild-eyed at his hands.

"Rotten lousy appointee!" snarled Thomas softly. "If it weren't for his connections with the Secretary of Medicine he'd be in the same boat with us. The lousy b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"I-I guess r d better be getting home: mumbled Bergman, sliding out of the booth. A sudden blast from the juke shivered him, and he regained his focus on Thomas with difficulty. "Thelma's probably waiting dinner for me.

"Thanks...thanks for having a drink with me, Murray. I'll see you at washup tomorrow." He ran a finger down the front of his jumper, sealing the suit; he pulled up his collar, sealing the suit to the neck.

A fine spray of rain-scheduled for this time by Weatherex-was dotting the huge transparent front of the lounge, and Bergman stared at it, engrossed for an instant, as though seeing something deeper in the rain.

He drew a handful of octagonal plastic chits from his pouch, dropped them into the pay slot on his side of the table, and started away. The machine registered an overpayment, but he did not bother to collect the surplus coins.

He paused, turned for a moment. Then, "Thanks...Murray..." and he was gone into the rain.

Poor slob, thought Dr. Murray Thomas, an ache beginning to build within him for things he could not name.

Just can't adjust. He knew he couldn't hold it, but he dialed another drink. He regretted it while doing it, but that ache had to be avoided at all costs. The drink was a double.

CHAPTER FOUR.

That night was h.e.l.l. h.e.l.l with the torture of memories past and present. He knew he had been acting like a fool, that he was just another stupid man who could not accept what was to be.

But there was more, and it pervaded his thoughts, his dreams. He had been a coward in front of Calins. He felt strongly-G.o.d! More than merely strongly!-yet he had backed down. After making an a.s.s of himself at the operation, the day of Old Fritz Kohlenschlagg's death, he had backed down. He had run away from his problem.

Now, all the years that he had lived by the Oath were wasted. His life seemed to be a failure. He had struggled desperately to get where he was, and now that he was there...he was nowhere. He had run away.

It was the first time since he had been very young that he had felt that way. He lay on the bed, the formkling sheet rumpled half on the floor at the foot of the bed. Thelma lay silent in the other hushbunk, the blanker keeping hersnores from disturbing him. And the memories slid by slowly.

He could still remember the time a friend had fallen into a cistern near a deserted house-before the dome-and fear had prevented his descending to save his playmate. The boy had drowned, and ten-year-old Stuart Bergman had fostered a guilt of that failure he had carried ever since. It had, he sometimes thought, been one of the factors that had contributed to his decision to become a doctor.

Now again, years later, he was helpless and trembling in the spider's mesh of a situation in which he could not move to do what he knew was right. He did not know why he was so set against them-Murray's a.n.a.logy of the scalpel was perfectly valid-but something sensed but unnamed in his guts told him he was right. This was unnatural, d.a.m.nable, that humans were worked over by machines.

It somehow-irrationally-seemed a plan of the Devil. He had heard people call the machines the Devil's Playthings. Perhaps they were right. He lay on his bed, sweating.

Feeling incomplete, feeling filthy, feeling contamined by his own inadequacy, and his cowardice before Calkins.

He screwed his face up in agony, in self-castigation, shutting his eyes tight, till the nerves running through his temples throbbed.

Then he placed the blame where it really belonged.

Why was he suffering? Why was his once-full life so suddenly empty and framed by worthlessness? Fear.

Fear of what? Why was he afraid? Because the Phymechs had taken over.

Again. The same answer. And in his mind, his purpose resolved, solidified.

He had to get the Phymechs discredited; had to find some reason for them to be thrown out. But how? How?

They were better. In all ways. Weren't they?

Three days later, as he a.s.sisted a phymech on his scheduled Operating a.s.signment, the answer came to Bergman as horribly as he might have wished. It came in the form of a practical demonstration, and he was never to forget it.

The patient had been involved in a thresher accident on one of the group-farms. The sucker-mouth thresher had whipped him off his feet, and dragged him in, feet first. He had saved himself from being completely chewed to bits by placing his hands around the mouth of the thresher, and others had rushed in to drag him free before his grip loosened.

He had fainted from pain, and luckily, for the sucker-mouth had ground off both his legs just below the knees.

When they wheeled him before Bergman-with his oxygen-mask and tube in hand-and the phymech-with instruments already clasped in nine of its thirteen magnetic tips-the man was covered with a sheet.

Bergman's transparent face-mask quivered as he drew back the sheet, exposing the man. They had bound up the stumps, and cauter-halted the bleeding...but the patient was as badly off as Bergman had ever seen an injured man.

It will be close all the way. Thank G.o.d, in this case, the phymech is fast and efficient. No human could save this one in time.

So intent was he on watching the phymech's technique, so engrossed was he at the snicker and gleam of the instruments being whipped from their cubicles in the phymech's storage-bin chest, he failed to adjust the anaesthesia-cone properly. Bergman watched the intricate play of the phymech's tentacles, as they telescoped out and back from the small holes in each shoulder-globe. He watched the tortured flesh being stripped back to allow free play for the sutures. The faint hiss of the imperfectly-fitted cone reached him too late.

The patient sat up, suddenly.

Straight up, with hands rigid to the table. His eyes opened, and he stared down at the ripped and bloodied stumps where his legs had been.

His screams echoed back from the operating room walls.

"Oh, I wanna die, I wanna die, I wanna die..." Over and over his hysterical screams beat at Bergman's consciousness. The phymech automatically moved to leach off the rising panic in the patient, but it was too late. The patient fainted, and almost instantly the cardio showed a dip. The spark was going out.

The phymech ignored it; there was nothing it could do about it. Organically the man was being handled efficiently. The trouble was emotional...where the phymech never went.

Bergman stared in horror. The man was dying...right out from under the tentacles. Why doesn't the thing try to help the man? Why doesn't he soothe him, let him know it'll be all right? He's dying, because he's in shock...he doesn't want to live! Just a word would do...

Bergman's thoughts whipped themselves into a frenzy, but the phymech continued operating, calmly, hurriedly, but with the patient failing rapidly.

Bergman started forward, intent to reach the patent. The injured man had looked up and seen himself amputated bloodily just beneath the knees, and worse, had seen the faceless metal ent.i.ty working over him; at that crucial moment when any little thing could sway the desire to live, the man had seen no human with whom he could identify...merely a rounded and planed block of metal. He wanted to die.

Bergman reached out to touch the patient. Without ceasing its activities, the phymech extruded a chamois-mitt tentacle, and removed Bergman's hand. The hollow inflectionless voice of the robot darted from its throat-speaker: "No interference please. This is against the rules."

Bergman drew back, horror stamped across his fine features, his skin literally crawling, from the touch of the robot, and from the sight of the phymech operating steadily...on a corpse.The man had lost the spark.

The operation was a success, as they had often quipped, but the patient was dead. Bergman felt nausea grip him with sodden fingers, and he doubled over turning quickly toward the wall. He stared up at the empty observation bubble, thankful this was a standard, routine operation and no viewers sat behind the clearness up there. He leaned against the feeder-trough of the instrument cabinets, and vomited across the sparkling grey plasteel tiles. A servomeck skittered free of its cubicle and cleaned away the mess immediately.

It only heightened his sickness.

Machines cleaning up for machines.

He didn't bother finishing as a.s.sistant on the phymech's grisly operation. It would do no good; and besides, the phymech didn't need any help.

It wasn't human.

Bergman didn't show up at Memorial for a week; there was a polite inquiry from Scheduling, but when Thelma told them he was "just under the weather" they replied "well, the robot doesn't really need him anyhow" and that was that. Stuart Bergman's wife was worried, however.

Her husband lay curled on the bed, face to the wall, and murmured the merest murmurs to her questions. It was really as though he had something on his mind.

(Well, if he did, why didn't he say something! There just is no understanding that man. Oh well, no time to worry over that now... Francine and Sally are getting up the electro-mah jongg game at Sally's today, Dear, can you punch up some lunch for yourself? Well, really! Not even an answer, just that mumble. Oh well, I'd better hurry...) Bergman did have something on his mind. He had seen a terrifying and a gut-wrenching thing. He had seen the robot fail. Miserably fail. That was the sum of it. For the first time since he had been unconsciously introduced to the concept of phymech infallibility, he had seen it as a lie. The phymech was not perfect. The man had died under Bergman's eyes. Now Stuart Bergman had to reason why... and whether it had happened before...whether it would happen again...what it meant...and what it meant to him, as well as the profession, as well as the world.

The phymech had known the man was in panic; the robot had instantly lowered the adrenalin count...but it had been more than that. Bergman had handled cases like that in the past, where improperly-delivered anaesthesis had allowed a patient to become conscious and see himself split open. But in such cases he had said a few rea.s.suring words, had run a hand over the man's forehead, his eyes, and strangely enough, that bit of bedside manner had been delivered in just such a proper way that the patient sank back peacefully into sleep.

But the robot had done nothing.

It had ministered to the body, while the mind shattered. Bergman had known, even as the man had seen his b.l.o.o.d.y stumps, that the operation would fail.

Why had it happened? Was this the first time a man had died under the tentacles of a Phymech, and if the answer was no...why hadn't he heard of it? When he stopped to consider, lost still in that horror maelstrom of memory and pain, he realized it was because the Phymechs were still "Undergoing Observation." But while that went on-so sure were the manufacturers, and the officials of the Department of Medicine, that the Phymechs were perfect-lives were being lost in the one way they could not be charged to the robots.