Brain Ships - Anne McCaffrey [212]
"Can't you do something more productive?"
"Give me time. We don't want to be obvious. And stop hissing at me. They'll think I'm talking to myself and hearing voices."
"From what I've seen of these befuddled gentry, that'll make you fit right in."
"Only," said Sev grimly, "if they don't hear the voices too."
Nancia hated to leave him with the last word in an argument, but she was distracted at that moment. Something had happened—or stopped happening. Caleb's sensor button was no longer transmitting a jiggling view of the cracks on the ceiling; the image was still and perfectly clear.
Not quite still. A regular, gentle motion assured her that he still breathed.
A moment later, two aides exchanged a flurry of rapid, low-voiced but mainly cheerful comments over Caleb's bed. Nancia gathered that the news was good; his (three-syllable Greek root) was up, his (four-syllable Latin derivation) was down, they were putting him on a regular dosage of (two-word Denebian form), and as soon as he was conscious they were to start him on a physical therapy routine.
She complained to Forister about the jargon.
"Now you know how the rest of the world feels about brains and brawns," he said soothingly. "You know, there are people who think decomposition theory is just a little hard to follow. They accuse us of mystifying the mathematics on purpose."
"Huh. There's nothing mystical about mathematics," Nancia grumbled. "This medical stuff is something else again."
"Why don't you translate the terms and find out what they mean?"
"I didn't have a classical education," Nancia told him. "I'm going to buy one when we get back to civilization, though. I want full datahedra of Latin, Greek, and medical terminology. With these new hyperchips I should be able to access the terms almost as fast as a native speaker."
Somebody shouted just out of visual range of Caleb's sensor button. The view of the hospital ceiling swayed, blurred, and was replaced by glass windows, green fields, and a white-clothed arm coming from the left. "Here," said a calm, competent voice just before Caleb bent over the permalloy bowl before him and gave up the contents of his last meal.
The contact button gave Nancia a very clear, sharply detailed close-up view of the results.
After that, though, he recovered his strength with amazing speed. Throughout the day Nancia followed his sessions with the physical therapist. At the same time she tracked Sev while he prowled the hallways of Summerlands Clinic and listened for any scrap of information about a patient named Valden Allen Hopkirk.
By mid-afternoon a new aide was able to assure Caleb that there would be no permanent nerve damage as a result of the attack.
"You're weak, though, and we'll need to retrain some of the nerve pathways; the stuff your space pirate used was a neural scrambler. Damage is reversible," the aide said briskly, "but I'd advise a prolonged course of therapy. You certainly won't be cleared to act as a brawn for some time. Has your ship been notified?"
"She knows everything that goes on here," said Caleb, placing one finger briefly on the edge of the contact button.
Nancia got a good look at the aide's face. The man looked thoughtful, perhaps worried. "I . . . see. And, um, I suppose the button has a dead-man switch? Some alarm if it's inactivated or removed?"
"Absolutely," Nancia responded through the contact button before Caleb could tell the truth. Some such arrangement would be a great safeguard for Caleb, and she wished Central had thought of it. But failing that, the illusion of the arrangement might give him some protection. She went on through the tiny speaker, ignoring Caleb's attempts to interrupt her. "Please notify all staff concerned of the arrangement. I would be sorry to have to sound a general alarm just because some ignorant staff member accidentally interfered with my monitoring system."
"That would indeed be . .