Authors: John Brunner
Now and then, when she broke off from the typewriter, she scratched the inflamed spot on her left wrist.
"Zena, honey! Zena!…Oh, God. How much longer before that stinking doctor gets here?"
IN MEMORIAM ISAIAH JAMES PRICE WILLIAMS, BORN
1924 IN CARDIGANSHIRE, WALES, FOULLY MURDERED IN
GUANAGUA, HONDU (remainder deleted. By a mortar shell.)
…
as well as can be expected, according to his personal
medical attendants. Unofficially, the President is said to be
suffering from
…
Esteemed Señor: While we appreciate that the situation in your country is currently very difficult, we must now INSIST on an answer to our letters of May 2, June 3, July 19 and August 11. It was our son Leonard's special wish that he should be interred in our family vault if anything awful happens to him.
"These cramps are killing me! You've got to give me another shot or I can't make tonight's show."
"You won't make it if I do give you another shot, Miss Page. You might very well fall asleep on camera."
Three hundred and sixty thousand fans turned out in Nashville
for the funeral of Big Mama Prescott, dead in New York of
pneumonia aggravated by extreme obesity.
"Next!…Ah, hell, you again, Train! A'right, sit down and hit me with some more of your jawbreaking words. Me, I'm just a poor ignorant prison doctor! What's given you the collywobbles this time?
Something else about jail your delicate constitution can't-? Hey! Get up! I said GET UP-that's an ORDER!
"Hey! Nurse! Quick!"
An American Hero: Jacob Bamberley
A Personal Account of his Last Days, by Gaylord T. Elliott
(Reprinted from
Colorado Patriot)
In a Howard Johnson's which still bore the scars of a recent price riot: Hugh Pettingill. Even without his mask, which he wished he didn't have to take off to eat because the stench here was pretty bad, the plaster he wore to protect the weeping sores around his mouth disguised his features. Nonetheless he kept glancing anxiously around as he forced down the hotcakes which were the only item available from the menu today.
The coffee was awful. Probably wasn't coffee at all. Since the
jigras,
they said in lots of places it was burnt corn kernels or even acorns.
Another two or three mouthfuls and he'd be on his way. Not too soon. Christ, if only the car held out…
FOLLOWING THE REGRETTED DEMISE OF THE
PRESIDENT OF THE ANGEL CITY INTERSTATE MUTUAL
INSURANCE CORPORATION DEALINGS IN THE STOCK OF
THE COMPANY ARE HEREBY SUSPENDED UNTIL
TUESDAY NEXT.
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Darling Lucy! It's so long since I heard from you! 1 know this
isn't exactly the best place in the world for postal services, but it's
among the few highlights of a two-year tour here when the mail
plane comes skidding in. Do please write to me soon. I look
forward every day to seeing you when I come back to Auckland,
away from this eternal polar whiteness.
IN RE: Dependents of OBOU, Hippolyte (Major),
age
24,
deceased
Noshri,
verdict
shot RULED: Unentitled to pension, death not having occurred on active service.
"What's your name?…Please, I'm trying to help you! Name! Who you?
Name
!"
"Maua! You want screw, soldier man? Twenty-five francs one time, hundred francs all night, baby!"
"Oh, God. She's off her rocker like the rest of them. Here, someone get-Hey, let go, you little bitch!
Hey
!"
THIS IS THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF MR.
BERTIL OLAV SVENSSON ordinarily resident at 45 Vasagatan, Malmo, who, being of sound mind and not having sampled or tasted or ingested poisoned food at Noshri (contrary to rumor) but having diagnosed in myself a strain of trachoma resistant to all known therapy which will inevitably make me blind, do purpose to terminate my life. I DEVISE AND BEQUEATH…
"Christ," he said. And repeated, "Christ! It's as if the world is just…"
"Crumbling?" she offered, and when he didn't disagree, gave a nod.
She hadn't looked his way. She was watching the tanks and armored cars closing in on the food rioters. A stray rock had starred the window, but they'd fixed that with adhesive tape to keep out the street air.
"But I can't go to the House with a-a fucking
tube
stuck up me!"
Howell barked.
"Yes, I know that," the doctor sighed. "But would you rather live to be governor or die in two weeks?"
"It's that bad?"
"Senator, you try going without a pee for a day or two, see if you prefer the catheter or not."
"What the hell is it due to, anyhow?"
"I don't know. Sorry. I'm waiting for the lab report, but they're taking anything up to ten days."
Command of the armed forces was today assumed by Colonel
Joku Amnibadu, following the indisposition of General Kaika. It's
understood that Brigadier Plitso, widely tipped as the heir
apparent, is in Switzerland for a medical examination.
Washing the windshield of her-their-car: Jeannie Goddard. Taking Pete to work this morning the wipers hadn't coped with the greasy deposit left by the last rain. And she wanted to see her way clearly to the prenatal clinic. Find out whether this constant nausea was to be endured, or needed treatment.
But the size of the bill already…
Well, it was for the baby's sake, after all, not just her own.
"Oh, nothing to worry about, Mrs. Mason. A very common thing these days, this blepharitis, nothing at all to do with your little girl's strabismus. Why, I must have seen twenty or thirty similar cases in the past month. Now I'll give you a note for your own doctor-isn't it Dr.
McNeil?-and…"
"
The number you have reached is not a working number.
Please hang up and
-"
…
"
The number you have reached is not-
"
…
"
The number you have
-"
…
"Operator, can I help you?…Yes, sir, but you must appreciate we're very short of staff right now…Well, sir, what is the problem? I have lots of other-Can you spell that?…H-E-N-L…Henlowe. Yes, sir, just a moment. Ah, here it is. All calls to that number are being referred to-What was that?…Well, sir, on the memo I have here it says her sister is looking after their little girl until they come out of the hospital…I don't know, sir, but the memo is dated-I'm sorry?…You're welcome."
You son of a bitch!
In his office at his handsome antique desk: Dr. Clayford. The phone rang.
"Hello?…No, I will not accept a call from my wife! Tell her to wait until I'm done with my morning appointments. She knows she mustn't bother me at work."
He slammed down the phone and looked toward the door, trying to discern who the next patient was. But the features blurred, and there was this discomfort at the corner of his right eye.
Funny.
Seems to be swimming.
And that damned noise. Got to complain to the police about-
"Doctor? Doctor!"
That hurt. Nose and cheekbone. Symptoms consistent with…
"Nurse, I think the doctor's passed out."
In his magnificent office, Roland Bamberley signing a letter to his lawyers concerning the faults so far found in the Mitsuyama water-purifiers and requesting advice on the possibility of a suit for breach of contract. He broke off after the Christian name because his arm had developed cramp all of a sudden. He shook it, and continued: Bam-Again, without warning, the agonizing pain. He looked at his hand grasping the pen and saw with surprise how white the fingers were.
Experimentally, he flexed them. The pen fell on the paper and left a long black streak; the letter would now have to be retyped.
But he couldn't feel his fingers, only the cramp.
He raised his left hand and began to massage his right one. A minute passed; so did the pain.
"Leave that ball alone! It's Rick's!"
"What? Ah, shit, I know it
was
Rick's, but like Zena said he's gone away and he won't be coming-"
"He is so coming back! Let go that ball-that's right! Now I'll put it back where you found it, so when Rick comes here he'll find all his things waiting nice and neat…I don't like you!"
Shouldn't have tried washing that foot in sea water, Tab thought.
But when you tread on a nail sticking out of a piece of board that runs its rusty spike clear through your shoe, and you can't afford to go to a clinic…
He forced himself to forget about the pain and the swelling and the nasty wetness of the pus. Another passerby was turning the corner. He hobbled forward.
"Say, friend, can you spare a-?"
"No!"
THINGS AROUND HERE JUST ARENT THE SAME
WITHOUT YOU.
WE ACTUALLY GET SOME WORK DONE!
Only kidding! Best wishes to Mel for a quick recovery from the
gang at the office.
Dear Sergeant Tatum:
I'm pleased to advise you that in view of your length of service
you are to be granted 48 per cent of your eventual pension. I
honestly wish it could have been more, but naturally you'll
appreciate there is a necessary distinction between injury in the
line of duty which entails premature retirement, and the
contraction of a disease, even one as severe as polio.
(On wall after wall after wall, from California to Nova Scotia, painted or scrawled or chalked or even carved, the same slogan accompanied by the same device: STOP, YOU'RE KILLING ME! )
"In place of the advertised program, regrettably postponed owing to the indisposition of key staff members at our New York studios, we're giving you another chance to see…"
Terry Fenton? Septicemia. (Something got into a self-inflicted cut while he was razor-styling Petronella's hair. She quit going to Guido's the third time there was something awful in the water.) Ian Farley? Bronchitis. (He'd left his filtermask at home, all the dispensers in the lobby of the ABS Building were empty, and it was a long time before he found a cab.)
Lola Crown? Earache and swollen parotid glands. (It won't yield to the standard therapy for mononucleosis, so maybe it isn't mono at all.
They took her off antibiotics. Sulfa drugs might turn the trick, with luck.) Marlon? Alternating between Terry's bedside and the can.
(Convinced the doctor tending him is useless, because he makes such nasty remarks about his-uh-hemorrhoids. Oughtn't to be allowed to practice medicine if he won't help people in real pain. Wish he could feel that acid diarrhea going out!)
And others, from the Big Bosses right on down.
Same as everywhere.
"Mr. Greenbriar, look. Uh-would you have any objection to a
male
secretary? We've tried every agency in town, and-I'm sorry?…
"An out-of-work actor, sir. Stranded by the cutback in programs at ABS…
"Oh, highly recommended, sir…Yes, sir. Which ones are those-the blue pills, or the green ones?"
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The priest looked doubtfully at the vast bluish bruises on his forearms. Then he hauled up the skirts of his habit to inspect those on his legs. They were just as bad.
Why wouldn't these Satan-serving Tupas go ahead and hang him, as they'd hanged the American, Hannigan, and the major?
Oh, of course. The Tupas had gone away. He'd forgotten.
Since they left, many people in the prison-camp had talked about going home. Somehow they hadn't done anything about it. Several of them had simply lain down and not moved again. All with these dark marks under the skin, many with bleeding mouths, too.
Something to do with food. The Tupas had said something. But one would not take advice from servants of the devil.
Then he saw a mosquito and weakly made to swat it, and missed, and after that he couldn't quite recall what he'd been thinking about.
Entering his office after a call at the hospital, where they had trouble with blocked filters again: Alan Prosser.
"Dorothy! What in hell's happened to your eye? It's all swollen!"
"Just a sty," Dorothy said wryly. "My own fault I washed at the sink when my filter was out. Got something in the root of an eyelash. Come to that, you're not looking so good yourself."
"No, I'm a bit bilious. Can't seem to keep any food in my belly these past few days. I'll go see Doug this afternoon. Or maybe tomorrow. Christ, is that my mail? It's six inches high!"
"Dr. Farquhar?…Oh, morning, Alec. This is Angie McNeil. Look, Doug's laid up with a mild bout of"-cough-"so sorry!"-cough, cough, COUGH-"oh,
dear
!
...
No, no, nothing serious, Doug's given me something already, just the dust, I guess…But what I was calling about: Doug has all these patients in the hospital and…Oh, blast!" Cough cough cough, COUGH. "Sorry!…What? Mervyn got to you already?