Koontz, Dean - Soft Come the Dragons by Koontz Dean

Author:Koontz, Dean [Koontz, Dean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

There was a familiar crackling that always preceded ev-everything Dr. Domo said, then: "Do you want a bed pan?"

We thought that Gabe was going to smash a fist right in-to the leering devil's alloy face. Kyu screamed as if it had already happened, and his terror seemed to dissuade Gabe from the act

"Dinner will be served in—click, clack—two hours," Domo squeaked. "Is that the trouble?"

"I want out!"

"Are you dying?" crackled the metal man.

"I'm only twenty-seven!" He said it like anyone older must be ancient papyrus cracking and flaking and ready to crumble to dust. I think we all disliked him a bit for his tone.

"Do you want a bed pan?" the robot asked again, obvi-ously bewildered. It was programmed to answer seven hundred different questions: May I have a bed pan, may I have more paper, what's for dinner, I have a pain. But nothing in its tape banks was designed to cope with this particular problem.

Then Gabe did do it. He pulled back one powerful hand and let go. Of course the blow never connected. One thing the metal nurse was programmed to do was fend off insane and angry patients.

With one jolt from its swiftly extended, double-pronged shocker, the machine knocked him flat on the floor, colder than yesterday's pancakes. And believe me, in here, yesterday's pancakes were cold enough yesterday.

We helped him into bed, Libby and I, and put cold compresses composed of worn out undershirts on his fore-head.

"Where—"

Kyu started to explain all over again, but he was hushed.

"Never argue with a robotnurse. You can't win," Libby said. He knew from experience, from his early years in the ward.

Gabe forced himself to a sitting position. His chin was bruised where he had fallen on it, and it was beginning to blue his face like a dull beard. It certainly wasn't pretty.

"You okay?" Kyu asked.

I kept quiet, for I never have been one to say much about anything at any time. Which reminds me of something Libby always used to say when I wrote my short stories (which the robots burned methodically). He would pucker up his scarred lips, open his wrinkled mouth very, very wide, and say,

"Boys, old Sam doesn't say much, but he's going to be our Boswell. And he'll do a better job with our collective biographies than that old-time runt ever did for Johnson's!"

Well, maybe Libby was right. Maybe I will chronicle it all. Maybe I have enough time left that I can go back from this last chapter and write all the ones that come before. That is all that is left for me now with everyone gone and the ward cold. Silence prevails, and I cannot stand the silence.

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