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Conway saw Dr. Mannon's eyebrows go up and a smile quirk the corners of his
mouth. He said, "I'd be glad to help you, of course, but I'm afraid any advice
I could give you at the moment would be pretty poor stuff." He made a
disgusted face and flapped his arms up and down. "I've still got an LSVO tape
working on me. You know how it is-half of me thinks I'm a bird and the other
half is a little confused about it. But what sort of advice do you need?" he
went on, his head perking to one side in an oddly bird-like manner. "If it's
that peculiar form of madness called young love, or any other psychological
disturbance, I'd suggest you see O'Mara."
Conway shook his head quickly; anybody but O'Mara. He said, "No. It's more of
a philosophical nature, a matter of ethics, maybe..
"Is that all!" Mannon burst out. He was about to say something more when his
face took on a fixed, listening expression. With a sudden jerk of his thumb he
indicated a nearby wall annunciator. He said quietly, "The solution to your
weighty problems will have to wait-you're wanted."
..... Dr. Conway," the annunciator was saying briskly, "Go to room 87 and
administer pep-shots...
"But 87 isn't even in our section!" Conway protested. "What's going on here...
Dr. Mannon had become suddenly grim. "I think I know," he said, "and I
advise you to keep a few of those shots for yourself because you are going to
need them." He turned abruptly and hurried off, muttering something about
getting a fast erasure before they started screaming for him, too.
Room 87 was the Casualty Section's staff recreation room, and when Conway
arrived its tables, chairs and even parts of its floor were asprawl with
green-
clad Monitors, some of whom had not the energy to lift their heads when he
came in. One figure pushed itself out of a chair with extreme difficulty and
weaved toward him. It was another Monitor with a Major's insignia on his
shoulders and the Staff and Serpents on his collar. He said, "Maximum dosage.
Start with me,"
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and began shrugging out of his tunic.
Conway looked around the room. There must have been nearly a hundred of them,
all in stages of advanced exhaustion and their faces showing that tell-
tale gray coloration. He still did not feel well disposed toward Monitors, but
these were, after a fashion, patients, and his duty was clear.
"As a doctor I advise strongly against this," Conway said gravely. "It's
obvious that you've had pep-shots already-far too many of them. What you need
is sleep-"
"Sleep?" said a voice somewhere. "What's that?"
"Quiet, Teirnan," said the Major tiredly, then to Conway; "And as a doctor
I understand the risks. I suggest we waste no more time."
Rapidly and expertly Conway set about administering the shots. Dull eyed,
bone-weary men lined up before him and five minutes later left the room with a
spring in their step and their eyes too bright with artificial vitality. He
had just finished when he heard his name over the annunciator again, ordering
him to
Lock Six to await instructions there. Lock Six, Conway knew, was one of the
subsidiary entrances to the Casualty section.
While he was hurrying in that direction Conway realized suddenly that he was
tired and hungry, but he did not get the chance to think about it for long.
The annunciators were giving out a call for all junior interns to report to
Casualty, and directions for adjacent wards to be evacuated where possible to
other accommodation. An alien gabble interspersed these messages as other
species received similar instructions.
Obviously the Casualty section was being extended. But why, and where were all
the casualties coming from? Conway's mind was a confused and rather tired
question mark.
V
At Lock Six a Tralthan Diagnostician was deep in conversation with two
Monitors.
Conway felt a sense of outrage at the sight of the highest and the lowest
being so chummy together, then reflected with a touch of bitterness that
nothing about this place could surprise him anymore. There were two more
Monitors beside the
Lock's direct vision panel.
"Hello, Doctor," one of them said pleasantly. He nodded toward the view port.
"They're unloading at Locks Eight, Nine and Eleven. We'll be getting our quota
any minute now.
The big transparent panel framed an awesome sight: Conway had never seen so
many ships together at one time. More than thirty sleek, silver needles,
ranging from ten-man pleasure yachts to the gargantuan transports of the
Monitor
Corps wove a slowly, complicated pattern in and around each other as they
waited permission to lock-on and unload.
"Tricky work, that," the Monitor observed.
Conway agreed. The repulsion fields which protected ships against collision
with the various forms of cosmic detritus required plenty of space.
Meteorite screens had to be set up a minimum of five miles away from the ship
they protected if heavenly bodies large and small were to be successfully
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