Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [76]
Leaning forward and reaching over, she wiped at the bare trickle with a finger and brought it to her lips. Her tongue communicated the unmistakable taste of salt. The moisture was a tear.
Why she voiced her thoughts she never knew. It was not a conscious decision, simply part of an automatic response. “I’ll call the duty doctor,” she whispered tightly. As she started to turn to do so, all five of the fingers on the patient’s left hand suddenly uncurled and reached up to grab her wrist in a grip of iron.
Lips fluttered, lips that had been kept moist through the judicious application of treated cloths and expensive salve. For the first time in the month and a day since the patient had been brought into the hospital and placed in his bed, a sound emerged from the hitherto unused throat. She had to lean close to sculpt a word from the whisper.
“Don’t…”
Transfixed by the single word, by the man’s blank stare, and by the utterly unexpected firmness of his grasp on her wrist, Tse stood there, not moving, waiting to see what would happen next. She could break the hold if she tried, she felt, but what effect might that have on the patient, who obviously wanted her to remain? He had spoken—she was certain of that. Could he also now hear?
“I’ll stay,” she told him, “but let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.”
The fingers relaxed, released her, slumped away from her wrist. In minutes, she knew, someone at Hospital Central would have noted the surge in physiological activity within the room. The duty doctor and staff might already be on their way.
Sure enough, they piled into the room a couple of minutes later, crowding around the bed as close as they dared without impeding the patient’s access to air. Among the panting arrivals was an imposing woman in expensive designer garb and a tall, lanky older man wearing the uniform of a high-ranking military officer. They competed for space and attention with Dr. Chimbu, who bent low over the patient.
“Mr. Jones, can you hear me?” When no response was forthcoming from the motionless figure in the bed, the doctor looked expectantly up at the woman in the expensive suit. After exchanging a glance with the officer, he nodded solemnly and tried again—but differently.
“Mr. Mallory. Alwyn Mallory, can you hear me?” The doctor licked his lips. “If you can hear me, can you give us a sign of some kind?”
The single, barely perceptible nod the patient managed by way of response generated more activity in the room than a speech from the president of the world federation. Bodies flew through the outer door, startling the guards. More decorously dressed but heavily armed individuals appeared moments later. In the interim, a steadfast Dr. Chimbu tried to keep at a proper distance those who sought to crowd the bed. Only the woman in the suit would not be denied.
“Mr. Mallory,” she whispered in a compassionate and gracious tone, “you are on Earth. You are safe. You were brought here from the inner moon of Argus Five. Treetrunk. You were found there on a badly jury-rigged lifeboat of outmoded design, in a spacesuit that was supplying you with a seriously reduced flow of air, presumably to conserve dwindling supplies.” She swallowed delicately. “It is presumed by some that you came from Treetrunk itself. Others feel you reached the moon from a passing ship. We—everyone—would like very much to know which is the truth of the matter.” When no response was forthcoming she glanced back at the stone-faced officer and tried again.
“Please, Mr. Mallory. If you can say anything, anything at all, do try to do so.”
The prone shape on the bed lay still and silent. Its lips did not move; its arms remained listless at its sides.