The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [7]
“Instead of wardens?”
“I didn’t—”
Sarah shook her head. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I keep interrupting.”
“Don’t worry. What I was trying to explain is that we’ve designed our installations to arrest your husband’s decline and hope that science discovers a cure for his ailment within a reasonable time.” He raised his hand a fraction to ward off her next question. “How long is ‘reasonable’? We don’t know. We’re in a race against disease. At this station, we hamper cell destruction, buy time.” Floyd drew a rigid finger across the glass. “But there’s a line beyond which your husband’s body will not recover. If he reaches that line before science can help, John will die.”
She nodded. “Thank you for your candor.”
John’s breath had deepened into a soft snore. Sarah tried to tug the hem of her skirt over dimpled knees encased in fine silk stockings. Earlier, when she sat, Floyd had caught a glimpse of a garter and mulled over the strange habits of some women. A girlfriend had once explained that garter belts were damn uncomfortable—okay for fun and games but not for every day. Sarah didn’t seem racy but, quite the contrary, almost demure. He puzzled over the contradiction.
“As I said before, we’ve watched the video, but could you explain the procedure again?”
Sarah had read the documents, probably knew every word by heart, and had watched the slides, films, and diagrams a thousand times. Floyd held her gaze. She must have been stunning in her day and was still a beautiful woman, not flashy but with a certain poise. With just a hint of makeup, her face had the serenity of a long-distance runner, in for the long haul with her chosen companion. Despite John’s harrowing predicament, Floyd felt a pang of envy. Her amber-colored eyes sparkled under a film of tears. Yes, though she knew everything, she needed to hear it in a voice modulated through living membranes.
“After admission we place a small sensor, the size of a hazelnut, below the skin in the patient’s neck—a procedure lasting a few minutes under local anesthesia.” From a tray on his desk, Floyd picked up an oval object similar to a bird’s egg, its glossy surface rippling under the strong light, and laid it on the glass. “This sensor collects information from the body and relays the data to our computer via a receptor on a ring around the patient’s neck. After a battery of tests, we sedate the patient, seal his nose, mouth, and ears to prevent fluid entrance, and place a net of conducting jelly around his body. The net will ensure he can stretch his limbs and exercise his muscles thanks to the impulses delivered by the computer. This will prevent muscular atrophy.”
“Will J—a patient be able to stand after …”
“Yes. The procedure mirrors that of some hibernating animals. But your question is a good one, since a human wouldn’t be able to walk after a few months of lying in bed. However, just consider, by contrast, that a ground squirrel can be up and running quickly after six months of hibernation.” Floyd blinked, appalled at his tactless choice of example. He could have chosen chipmunks or raccoons among scores of hibernating animals rather than a squirrel, which was almost impossible to disassociate from one of their creations: Bernard, a squirrel decked out in a black-and-white-checkered waistcoat. “Our technology mimics such natural mechanisms.”
She reached for her sleeping husband and covered his hand with hers. John, her squirrel. Sarah’s lips didn’t move, but Floyd could have sworn he spotted the words flashing across her irises.
“After that, we immerse the patient into a capsule, holding fluid slightly above the freezing point, and lower his core temperature to between five and ten degrees Celsius—say forty to fifty degrees Fahrenheit. We use a harness and wires to handle his body. Once in the fluid, the wires relax, since the hibernation liquid has a precise density to guarantee the patient’s weightlessness. He’s ventilated through a tracheal cord and supplied regularly with lipids, minerals,