One hour later they pulled my fangs without benefit of anaesthesia.
Thorndyke came in to inspect the progress of my infection and allowed as
how I'd be about ready for the full treatment in a few days. "We like to
delay the full treatment as long as possible," he told me, "because it
immobilizes the patient too long as it is." He pressed a call bell,
waited, and soon the door opened to admit a nurses' helper pushing a
trundle cart loaded with medical junk. I still don't know what was on
the cart because I was too flabbergasted to notice it.
I was paying all my attention to Catherine, cheerful in her Gray Lady
uniform, being utterly helpful, bright, gay, and relaxed. I was tongue
tied, geflummoxed, beaten down, and--well, just speechless.
Catherine was quite professional about her help. She loaded the
skin-blast hypo and slapped it into Thorndyke's open hand. Her eyes
looked into mine and they smiled reassuringly. Her hand was firm as she
took my arm; she locked her strength on my hand and held it immobile
while Thorndyke shot me in the second joint. There was a personal touch
to her only briefly when she breathed, "Steve, I'm so glad!" and then
went on about her work. The irony of it escaped me; but later I did
recall the oddity of congratulating someone who's just contracted a
disease.
Then that wave of agony hit me, and the only thing I can remember
through it was Catherine folding a towel so that the hem would be on the
inside when she wiped the beads of sweat from my face. She cradled my
head between her hands and crooned lightly to me until the depths of the
pain was past. Then she got efficient again and waved Thorndyke aside to
see to the little straps on the manipulator herself. She adjusted them
delicately. Then she poured me a glass of ice water and put it where I
could reach it with my other hand. She left after one long searching
look into my eyes, and I knew that she would be back later to talk to me
alone. This seemed all right with Dr. Thorndyke, the wily telepath who
would be able to dig a reconstruction of our private talk with a little
urging on his part.
After Catherine was gone, Thorndyke smiled down at me with cynical
self-confidence. "There's your lever, Steve," he said.
The dope helped to kill all but the worst waves of searing pain; between
them I managed to grind out, "How did you sell her that bill of goods,
Thorndyke?"
His reply was scornful. "Maybe she likes your hide all in one piece," he
grunted.
He left me with my mind a-whirl with thoughts and pain. The little
manipulator was working my second finger joint up and down rhythmically,
and with each move came pain. It also exercised the old joint, which had
grown so rigid that my muscles hadn't been able to move it for several
hours. That added agony, too.
The dope helped, but it also dimmed my ability to concentrate.
Up to a certain point everything was quite logical and easy to
understand. Catherine was here because they had contacted her through
some channel and said, "Throw in with us and we'll see that your lover
does not die miserably." So much was reasonable, but after that point
the whole thing began to take on a mad puzzle-like quality. Given normal
circumstances, Catherine would have come to me as swiftly as I'd have
gone to her if I'd known how. Not only that, but I'd probably have sworn
eternal fealty to them for their service even though I could not stand
their way of thinking.
But Catherine was smart enough to realize that I, as the only known
carrier of Mekstrom's Disease, was more valuable live than dead.
Why, then, had Catherine come here to place herself in their hands?
Alone, she might have gone off half-cocked in an emotional tizzy. But
the Highways had good advisers who should have pointed out that Steve
Cornell was one man alive who could walk with impunity among friend or
foe. Why, they hadn't even tried to collect me until it became evident
that I was in line for the Old Treatment. Then they had to take me in,
because the Medical Center wanted any information they could get above
and beyond the fact that I was a carrier. If someone from Homestead had
been in that courtroom, I'd now be among friends.
Then the ugly thought hit me and my mind couldn't face it for some time.
_Reorientation._
Catherine's cheerful willingness to help them must be reorientation and
nothing else.
Now, although I've mentioned reorientation before, what I actually know
about it is meager. It makes Dr. Jekylls out of former Mr. Hydes and the
transformation is complete. It can be done swiftly; the rapidity depends
upon the strength of the mind of the operator compared to the mind of
the subject. It is slightly harder to reorient a defiant mind than a
willing one. It sticks unless someone else begins to tinker again. It is
easier to make a good man out of a bad one than the reverse, although
the latter is eminently possible. This is too difficult a problem to
discuss to the satisfaction of everybody, but it seems to go along with
the old theory that "Good" does benefit the tribe of mankind in the long
run, while "Bad" things cause trouble. I'll say no more than to point
out that no culture based upon theft, murder, piracy, and pillage, has
ever survived.
The thought of Catherine's mind being tampered with made me seethe with
anger. I forgot my pain and began to probe around wildly, and as I
probed I began to know the real feeling of helpless futility.
For here I was, practically immobilized and certainly dependent upon
them for help. This was no time to attempt a rescue of my
sweetheart--who would only be taken away kicking and screaming all the
way from here to the first place where I could find a haven and have her
re-reoriented. The latter would not be hard; among the other things I
knew about reorientation was that it could be negated by some strong
emotional ties and a personal background that included worthy objection
to the new personality.
For my perceptive digging I came up with nothing but those things that
any hospital held. Patients, nurses, interns, orderlies; a couple of
doctors, a scholar presiding over a sheaf of files. And finally
Catherine puttering over an autoclave. She was setting out a string of
instruments under the tutelage of a superintendent of nurses who was
explaining how the job should be done.
I took a deep, thankful breath. Her mind was occupied enough to keep her
from reading the dark thoughts that were going through mine. I did not
even want a loved one to know how utterly helpless and angry I felt.
And then, because I was preoccupied with Catherine and my own thoughts,
the door opened without my having taken a dig at the opener beforehand.
The arrival was all I needed to crack wide open in a howling fit of
hysteria. It was so pat. I couldn't help but let myself go: "Well! This
looks like Old Home Week!"
Miss Gloria Farrow, Registered Nurse, did not respond to my awkward
joviality. Her face, if anything, was darker than my thoughts. I doubted
that she had her telepathy working; people who get that wound up find it
hard to even see and hear straight, let alone think right. And telepathy
or perception goes out of kilter first because the psi is a very
delicate factor.