SUBJECT CODED JACKSON, PETER

DIAGNOSTIC PROBABILITIES

1. ACUTE AND CHRONIC BLOOD LOSS

ETIOLOGY GASTROINTESTINAL .884

NO OTHER STATISTICALLY SIGNIFICANT

SOURCES.

2. ACIDOSIS

ETIOLOGY UNEXPLAINED

FURTHER DATA REQUIRED

SUGGEST HISTORY

Hall read the printout and shrugged. The computer might suggest he talk to the patient, but that was easier said than done. Jackson was comatose, and if he had ingested anything to make his blood acid, they would not find out until he revived.

On the other hand, perhaps he could test blood gases. He turned to the computer and punched in a request for blood gases.

The computer responded stubbornly.

PATIENT HISTORY PREFERABLE TO LABORATORY ANALYSES

Hall typed in: "Patient comatose."

The computer seemed to consider this, and then flashed back:

PATIENT MONITORS NOT COMPATIBLE WITH COMA

EEG SHOWS ALPHA WAVES DIAGNOSTIC OF SLEEP

"I'll be damned," Hall said. He looked through the window and saw that Jackson was, indeed, stirring sleepily. He crawled down through the tunnel to his plastic suit and leaned over the patient.

"Mr. Jackson, wake up . . ."

Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared at Hall. He blinked, not believing.

"Don't be frightened," Hall said quietly. "You're sick, and we have been taking care of you. Do you feel better?"

Jackson swallowed, and nodded. He seemed afraid to speak. But the pallor of his skin was gone; his cheeks had a slight pinkish tinge; his fingernails were no longer gray.

"How do you feel now?"

"Okay . . . Who are you?

"I am Dr. Hall. I have been taking care of you. You were bleeding very badly. We had to give you a transfusion."

He nodded, accepting this quite calmly. Somehow, his manner rung a bell for Hall, who said, "Has this happened to you before?"

"Yes," he said. "Twice."

"How did it happen before?"

"I don't know where I am," he said, looking around the room. "Is this a hospital? Why are you wearing that thing?"

"No, this isn't a hospital. It is a special laboratory in Nevada."

"Nevada?" He closed his eyes and shook his head. "But I'm in Arizona . . ."

"Not now. We brought you here, so we could help you."

"How come that suit?"

"We brought you from Piedmont. There was a disease in Piedmont. You are now in an isolation chamber."

"You mean I'm contagious?"

"Well, we don't know for sure. But we must—"

"Listen," he said, suddenly trying to get up, "this place gives me the creeps. I'm getting out of here. I don't like it here."

He struggled in the bed, trying to move against the straps. Hall pushed him back gently.

"Just relax, Mr. Jackson. Everything will be all right, but you must relax. You've been a sick man."

Slowly, Jackson lay back. Then: "I want a cigarette."

"I'm afraid you can't have one."

"What the hell, I want one."

"I'm sorry, smoking is not allowed."

"Look here, young fella, when you've lived as long as I have you'll know what you can do and what you can't do. They told me before. None of that Mexican food, no liquor, no butts. I tried it for a spell. You know how that makes a body feel? Terrible, just terrible."