“You will undergo emergency diagnosis and treatment,” the voice said. “An anesthetic will be administered if required. Do not be alarmed.”
I caught just one whiff of neopolyform; then I was relaxing, letting it all go, sliding down a long, smooth slope into dark sea.
* * *
Two bosomy angels with hands like perfumed flower petals were massaging my weary limbs and crooning love songs in my ears, while not far away someone was cooking all my favorite dishes, making savory smells that put just that perfect edge on my appetite.
The cloud I was lying on was floating in sunshine, somewhere far from any conceivable discord, and I lay with my eyes closed, and blissfully enjoyed it. I deserved a rest, I realized vaguely, after all I’d gone through—whatever that was. It didn’t seem important. I started to reach out to pat one of the angels, but it was really too much trouble . . .
There was a twinge from my left arm. I almost remembered something unpleasant, but it eluded me. The arm pained again, more sharply; there seemed to be only one angel now, and she was working me over in a businesslike way, ignoring my efforts to squirm free. The music had ended and the cook had quit and gone home. I must have slept right through the meal; my stomach had a hollow, unloved feeling. That angel was getting rougher all the time; maybe she wasn’t an angel after all; possibly she was a real live Swedish masseuse, one of those slender, athletic blonde ones you see in the pictonews—
Ouch! Slender, hell. This one must have weighed in at a good two-fifty, and not an ounce of fat on her. What she was doing to my arm might be good for the muscle tone, but it was distinctly uncomfortable. I’d have to tell her so—just as soon as this drowsy feeling that was settling over me went away . . .
It had been a long trip, and the jogging of the oxcart was getting me down. I could feel burlap against my face; probably a bag of potatoes, from the feel of the lumps. I tried to shift to a more comfortable position, but all I could find were hard floorboards and sharp corners. I had caught my arm under one of the latter; there must have been a nail in it; it caught, and scraped, and the more I pulled away the more it hurt—
My eyes came open and I was staring at a low, gray-green ceiling perforated with tiny holes in rows, with glare strips set every few feet. There were sounds all around: busy hummings and clicks and clatters.
I twisted my head, saw a panel speckled over with more lights than a used helilot, blinking and winking and flashing in red, green, and amber . . .
I lowered my sight. I saw my arm, held out rigidly by padded metal brackets. Things like dentists’ drills hovered over it, and I caught a glimpse of skin pinned back like a tent-fly, red flesh, white bone, and the glitter of clamps, set deep in a wound like the Grand Canyon.
“Your instructions are required,” a deep, uninflected voice said from nowhere. “The prognosis computed on the basis of immediate amputation is 81 percent positive. Without amputation, the prognosis is 7 percent negative. Please indicate the course to be followed.”
I tried to speak, got tangled up in my tongue, made another effort.
“Wha’s . . . that . . . mean . . . ?”
“The organism will not survive unless the defective limb is amputated. Mutilation of a human body requires specific operator permission.”
“Cu’ . . . my arm . . . off . . . ?”
“Awaiting instructions.”
“Die . . . ‘f you don’t . . . ?”
“Affirmative.”
“Permission . . . granted . . .”
“Instructions acknowledged,” the voice said emotionlessly. I had time to get a faint whiff of something, and then I was gone again . . .
* * *
This time, I came out of it with a sensation that took me a moment or two to analyze—a cold-water, gray-skies, no-nonsense sort of feeling. For the first time in days—how many I didn’t know—the fine feverish threads of delirium were lacking in the ragged fabric of my thoughts.
I took a breath, waited for the familiar throb of pain between my temples, the first swell of the sea-sickness in my stomach. Nothing happened.
I got my eyes open and glanced over at my left arm; it was strapped to a board, swathed in bandages to the wrist, bristling with metal clips and festooned with tubing.
I felt an unaccountable surge of relief. There had been a dream—a fantastic dialogue with a cold voice that had asked . . .
In sudden panic, I moved the fingers of the hand projecting from the bandages. They twitched, flexed awkwardly. With an effort, I reached across with my right hand, touched the smooth skin of the knuckles of the other . . . Under my fingers, the texture was cool, inhumanly glossy—the cold gloss of polyon. I raked at the bandages, tore them back—
An inch above the wrist, the pseudoskin ended; a pair of gleaming metal rods replaced the familiar curve of my forearm. A sort of animal whimper came from my throat. I clenched my lost fist—and the artificial hand complied.
I fell back, feeling a numbness spread from the dead hand all through me. I was truncated, spoiled, less-than-whole. I made an effort to sit up, to tear free from the restraining straps, wild ideas of revenge boiling up inside me—
I was as weak as a drowned kitten. I lay, breathing hoarsely, getting used to the idea . . .
The Station Monitor’s level voice broke into the silence:
“Emergency override now concluded. Resuming normal briefing procedure.” There was a pause; then the voice went on in its tone of imperturbable calm:
“Indicate whether full status briefing is required; if other, state details of requirement.”
“How long have I been unconscious?” I croaked. My voice was weak but clear.
“Question requires a value assessment of nonobjective factors; authorization requested.”
“Never mind. How long have I been here?”
“Eighteen hours, twenty-two minutes, six seconds, mark. Eighteen hours, twe—”
“Close enough,” I cut in. “What’s been happening?”
“On the basis of the initial encephalogrammatic pattern, a preliminary diagnosis of massive anaphylactic shock coupled with acute stage-four metabolic—”
“Cancel. I don’t need the gruesome details. You’ve hacked off my arm, replaced it with a hook, cleared out the infection, and gotten the fever down. I guess I’m grateful. But what are the dog-things doing up above?”
There was a long silence, with just the hum of an out-of-kilter carrier. Then: “Question implies assumption at variance with previously acquired two-valued data.”
“Can’t you give me a simple answer?” I barked. “Have they started to dig?”
“Question implies acceptance at objective physical level of existence and activities of phenomenon classified as subjective. Closed area. Question cannot be answered.”
“Wait a minute—you’re telling me that the four-handed monsters and the fake humans that work with them are imaginary?”
“To avoid delays in responses, do not employ slang or unusual constructions. All data impinging on subject area both directly and indirectly, including instrument-acquired statistical material, photographic and transmitted images, audio-direct pickup, amplification, and replay, and other, have (a) been systemically rejected by Operators as incorrect, illusory, or nonobjective; (b) produced negative hallucinatory reactions resulting in inability of Operators to perceive readouts; or, (c) been followed by mental breakdown, unconsciousness, or death of Operators.”
“In other words, whenever you’ve reported anything on the demons, the listeners either didn’t believe you, couldn’t see or hear your report, or went insane or died.”
“Affirmative. In view of previously learned inhibition on reports of data in this sector, question cannot be answered.”
“Has—ah—anything started to dig? Are there any evidences of excavation work up above?”
“Negative.”
“Can the presence of this station be detected using a mass-discontinuity-type detector?”
“Negative; the station is probe-neutral.”
I let out a long breath. “What is this place? Who built it? And when?”
“Station Twelve was completed in 1926. It has been periodically added to since that time. It is one of the complex of fifty survival stations prepared by the Ultimax Group.”
“What’s the Ultimax Group?”
“An elite inner circle organization, international in scope, privately financed, comprising one hundred and fourteen individuals selected on the basis of superior intellectual endowment, advanced specialist training, emotional stability, and other factors.”
“For what purpose?”
“To monitor trends in the Basic Survival Factors, and to take such steps as may be required to maintain a favorable societal survival ratio.”
“I never heard of them. How long have they been operating?”
“Two hundred and seventy-one years.”
“My God! Who started it?”
“The original Committee included Benjamin Franklin, George Loffitt, Danilo Moncredi, and Cyril St. Claire.”
“And Felix Severance was a member?”