Second Ending Read Online Free Page B
automation spreading from the factories into the homes, guardian robots for small children — there had even been talk of a robot barber. But in his wildest moments Ross would never have thought of them turning one loose in a hospital. Ross had to check an urge to revise his picture of what had happened while he was in Deep Sleep, because the revision would be based on incomplete data and would probably be as wide of the truth as the last one. Horrible mutations working under a cloak of darkness, indeed! He decided not to jump to any conclusions at all until he had been to Dr. Pellew's quarters.
Matching pace with Ross's weary shuffle, the robot led him through a series of short corridors, up another ramp for two levels, then into what appeared to be the administration and maintenance section. Ross was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had had a horde of robots sprung on him without warning only minutes ago, and now he was talking to one of them, almost naturally. Such powers of adaptability, he thought, were something to be proud of.
He kept the conversation simple, of course, and confined mainly to short, direct questions regarding the rooms or machinery they passed. To some of the simple questions the robot gave concise and detailed answers, and occasionally he received a reply of "I'm sorry, sir, I have not been programmed with data on this subject…"
At one point Ross broke off to ask, "Why do you keep calling me 'sir' when you know my name?"
The robot ticked quietly to itself for a few seconds, and Ross went over the question again in his mind to see if it might sound ambiguous. It didn't, so he repeated the question aloud.
The ticking slowed and stopped. "A Ward Sister of my type has two choices of behavior toward human beings," the robot said in its pleasant, feminine voice. "Toward patients we are friendly but authoritative, because we are better qualified to know what will and will not benefit them, and surnames prefixed by 'Mr.' are used. When a human being is mobile and shows no marked signs of physical malfunction we treat him as our superior. The choice was difficult in your case."
"Between a mobile Boss and a bedridden patient," said Ross drily, "and I was a mobile patient."
"As my superior," the robot went on, "you are not required to give reasons for your misuse and damaging of ward bed linen."
Ross began to laugh softly. Sisters were all the same, he thought; even the mechanical ones were inclined to fuss. He was still laughing when they reached Dr. Pellew's room.
It was much smaller than the quarters Pellew had once occupied, but it contained the same chairs, desk and bookcase. The only items missing were Beethoven and the thin, irascible person of Pellew himself. A heavy ledger lay exactly centered on the desk with an empty ashtray on one side and an adjustable calendar on the other. Pellew had been a notoriously untidy man, Ross knew, so this uncharacteristic neatness must be due to the cleaning robots while Pellew was in Deep Sleep. Knowing that the Doctor was not in a position to object, Ross sat at the desk and opened the ledger.
It was a diary, more than half filled with Pellew's odd, backward-leaning scrawl.
Before he settled down to reading it, the caution of a lowly student who was making free with his superior's holy of holies prompted a question.
"Who is the Doctor in charge at the moment?" Ross asked. "Who's awake, I mean."
"You, sir," said the robot.
"Me! But…"
He had been about to say that he wasn't qualified, that another two years of study would elapse before, if he was lucky, he could tack "Dr." in front of his name. But there was a staff shortage, so much so that they must have been forced to awaken students to fill in for qualified doctors. The ledger would probably tell him why.
"Have you any instructions, sir?" said the robot.
Ross tried to think like a Doctor in charge. He hemmed a couple of
Matching pace with Ross's weary shuffle, the robot led him through a series of short corridors, up another ramp for two levels, then into what appeared to be the administration and maintenance section. Ross was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had had a horde of robots sprung on him without warning only minutes ago, and now he was talking to one of them, almost naturally. Such powers of adaptability, he thought, were something to be proud of.
He kept the conversation simple, of course, and confined mainly to short, direct questions regarding the rooms or machinery they passed. To some of the simple questions the robot gave concise and detailed answers, and occasionally he received a reply of "I'm sorry, sir, I have not been programmed with data on this subject…"
At one point Ross broke off to ask, "Why do you keep calling me 'sir' when you know my name?"
The robot ticked quietly to itself for a few seconds, and Ross went over the question again in his mind to see if it might sound ambiguous. It didn't, so he repeated the question aloud.
The ticking slowed and stopped. "A Ward Sister of my type has two choices of behavior toward human beings," the robot said in its pleasant, feminine voice. "Toward patients we are friendly but authoritative, because we are better qualified to know what will and will not benefit them, and surnames prefixed by 'Mr.' are used. When a human being is mobile and shows no marked signs of physical malfunction we treat him as our superior. The choice was difficult in your case."
"Between a mobile Boss and a bedridden patient," said Ross drily, "and I was a mobile patient."
"As my superior," the robot went on, "you are not required to give reasons for your misuse and damaging of ward bed linen."
Ross began to laugh softly. Sisters were all the same, he thought; even the mechanical ones were inclined to fuss. He was still laughing when they reached Dr. Pellew's room.
It was much smaller than the quarters Pellew had once occupied, but it contained the same chairs, desk and bookcase. The only items missing were Beethoven and the thin, irascible person of Pellew himself. A heavy ledger lay exactly centered on the desk with an empty ashtray on one side and an adjustable calendar on the other. Pellew had been a notoriously untidy man, Ross knew, so this uncharacteristic neatness must be due to the cleaning robots while Pellew was in Deep Sleep. Knowing that the Doctor was not in a position to object, Ross sat at the desk and opened the ledger.
It was a diary, more than half filled with Pellew's odd, backward-leaning scrawl.
Before he settled down to reading it, the caution of a lowly student who was making free with his superior's holy of holies prompted a question.
"Who is the Doctor in charge at the moment?" Ross asked. "Who's awake, I mean."
"You, sir," said the robot.
"Me! But…"
He had been about to say that he wasn't qualified, that another two years of study would elapse before, if he was lucky, he could tack "Dr." in front of his name. But there was a staff shortage, so much so that they must have been forced to awaken students to fill in for qualified doctors. The ledger would probably tell him why.
"Have you any instructions, sir?" said the robot.
Ross tried to think like a Doctor in charge. He hemmed a couple of
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