Tales and Vignettes of the Heechee by Frederik Pohl

Author:Frederik Pohl
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, General, Fiction, Fiction - Science Fiction, Science Fiction - General
Publisher: Del Rey / Ballantine
Published: 2018-03-09T05:00:00+00:00

XIII

They had to patch me and rehydrate me for three days before they could even think about putting my new liver in. It was a wonder it had survived its ordeal, but they’d whipped it out and put it on nutrient pumps as soon as they got their hands on it. By the time it was ready to be transplanted into me it had had its allergenic nature tamed and was as good as any liver ever was—good enough, anyway, to keep me alive.

They kept me sedated most of the time. The quacks woke me up every couple of hours to give me another bout of feedback training on how to monitor my hepatic flows—they said there was no point giving me a new liver if I didn’t know how to use it—and other people kept waking me up to ask me questions, but it was all dreamlike. I didn’t much want to be awake just then. Being awake was all sickness and pain and nagging, and I could have wished for the old days back again—when they just would have knocked me out with anesthesia until they were through—except, of course, that in the old days I would have died.

But by the fourth day I hardly hurt at all—well, except when I moved. And they were letting me take my fluids by mouth instead of the other way.

I realized I was going to be alive for a while. That was very good news, and, once I believed it, I began to take more interest in what was going on.

The Quackery was in its spring mood, which I appreciated. Of course, there’s no such thing as a season in the Spindle, but the quacks get all sentimental about tradition and ties with the Mother Planet, so they create seasons for themselves. The current one was made by scenes of fleecy white clouds playing across the wall panels, and the air from the ventilator ducts smelled of lilac and green leaves.

“Happy spring,” I said to Dr. Morius while he was examining me.

“Shut up,” he said to me. He shifted a couple of the needles that pincushioned my abdomen, watching the readings on the telltales. “Urn,” he muttered.

“I’m glad you think so,” I said.

He disregarded my remark. Dr. Morius doesn’t like humorous conversation unless it comes from him. He pursed his lips and pulled out a couple of the needles. “Well, let’s see, Walthers. We’ve taken out the splenovenal shunt. Your new liver is functioning well—no sign of rejection—but you’re not flushing wastes through as fast as you ought to. You’ll have to work on that. We’ve got your ion levels back up to something like a human being, and most of your tissues have a little moisture in them again. Altogether,” he said, scratching his head in thought, “yes, in general, I would say you’re alive. So I think probably the operation was a success.”

“That’s very witty,” I said.

“You’ve got some people waiting for you,” he went on. “Vastra’s Third and your lady friend.

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