He took a minute hypodermic syringe from the kit, inserted the needle
through a penetration point on the container he had selected, filled it
slowly. Jill stirred uneasily, asked, "What are you giving him?"
Dowland glanced over at her. "I don't know exactly. The brand name's
'medic.' There are around thirty other names for what's probably the
same preparation. They're all very popular wherever good doctors and
good hospitals aren't readily available. I haven't run into medic on
Terra, but I bring along my own supply."
"What will it do for him?"
"Well, as I understand it, as soon as I inject this into his arm, it
will spread through his body and start looking things over. Medic
appears to know what a healthy human body should be like. So it
diagnoses what's wrong--cold symptoms, burned-out lung, hangover,
broken ankle--and then tries to bring the situation back to normal."
* * * * *
He slid up Miguel Trelawney's sleeve, inserted the needle tip into the
thick, flaccid biceps, slowly depressed the plunger. "Medic's supposed
to be in the class of a virus--a very well-intentioned virus when it
comes to human beings." He removed the needle, glanced at his watch.
"Almost six-thirty.... A hangover'd get knocked out in three minutes.
But judging from the condition your uncle seems to be in, it might be
four or five hours now before the stuff really begins to take hold with
him. If it can bring him back to consciousness by itself, it probably
won't happen much before morning. Might be earlier; but I don't think
we should wait for that before trying to get your Uncle Paul out of the
lab. If he hasn't come out on his own, he may be in the same shape as
Miguel. Or worse."