The Foundations of Paradise - Arthur C. Clarke [66]
Yet I’m only fifty-nine—and it will be at least five years, even if all goes well, before the first passenger car rides up to Midway Station. Then another three years of tests, calibration, system tune-ups. Make it ten years, to be on the safe side . . .
Though it was warm, he felt a sudden chill. For the first time, it occurred to Vannevar Morgan that the triumph upon which he had set his soul might come too late for him. And quite unconsciously he pressed his hand against the slim metal disk concealed inside his shirt.
33
Cora
“Why did you leave it until now?” Dr. Sen had asked, in a tone appropriate for a retarded child.
“The usual reason,” Morgan answered as he ran his good thumb along the seal of his shirt. “I was too busy—and whenever I felt short of breath, I blamed it on the height.”
“Altitude was partly to blame, of course. You’d better check all your people on the mountain. How could you have overlooked anything so obvious?”
How indeed? thought Morgan, with some embarrassment.
“All those monks—some of them were over eighty! They seemed so healthy that it never occurred to me . . .”
“The monks have lived up there for years. They’re completely adapted. But you’ve been hopping up and down several times a day—”
“Twice, at the most.”
“—going from sea level to half an atmosphere in a few minutes. Well, there’s no great harm done—if you follow instructions from now on. Mine, and CORA’s.”
“CORA’s?”
“Coronary alarm.”
“Oh—one of those things.”
“Yes—one of those things. They save about ten million lives a year. Mostly top civil servants, senior administrators, distinguished scientists, leading engineers, and similar nitwits. I often wonder if it’s worth the trouble. Nature may be trying to tell us something, and we’re not listening.”
“Remember your Hippocratic Oath, Bill,” retorted Morgan with a grin. “And you must admit that I’ve always done just what you told me. Why, my weight hasn’t changed a kilo in the last ten years.”
“Um—well, you’re not the worst of my patients,” said the slightly mollified doctor. He fumbled around in his desk, and produced a large holopad. “Take your choice—here are the standard models. Any color you like as long as it’s medic red.”
Morgan triggered the images, and regarded them with distaste.
“Where do I have to carry the thing?” he asked. “Or do you want to implant it?”
“That isn’t necessary, at least for the present. In five years, maybe, but perhaps not even then. I suggest you start with this model. It’s worn just under the breastbone, so doesn’t need remote sensors. After a while, you won’t notice it’s there. And it won’t bother you unless it’s needed.”
“And then?”
“Listen.”
The doctor threw one of the numerous switches on his desk console, and a sweet mezzo-soprano voice remarked in a conversational tone: “I think you should sit down and rest for about ten minutes.” After a brief pause, it continued: “It would be a good idea to lie down for half an hour.” Another pause. “As soon as convenient, make an appointment with Dr. Smith.” Then:
“Please take one of the red pills immediately.”
“I have called the ambulance. Just lie down and relax. Everything will be all right.”
Morgan almost clapped his hands over his ears to cut out the piercing whistle.
“THIS IS A CORA EMERGENCY! WILL ANYONE WITHIN RANGE OF MY VOICE PLEASE COME IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS A CORA EMERGENCY! WILL—”
“I think you get the general idea,” said the doctor, restoring silence to his office. “Of course, the programs and responses are individually tailored to the subject. And there’s a wide range of voices, including some quite famous ones.”
“That will do nicely. When will my unit be ready?”
“I’ll call you in about three days. Oh yes—there’s an advantage of the chest-worn units I should mention.”
“What’s that?”
“One of my patients is a keen tennis player. He tells me that when he opens his shirt, the sight of that little red disk has an absolutely devastating effect on his opponent’s game. . . .”