Deep Freeze by H. Walter Whyte

Author:H. Walter Whyte [Whyte, H. Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sci Fi & Fantasy
Publisher: Manor Books
Published: 1977-01-07T00:00:00+00:00

III

Hanover/February 16, 2008/8:49 A.M.

“I thought I was only going to be here overnight,” I say, sounding, even to myself, a little like a spoiled child.

“Well, it’s a little more complex than we thought at first,” says the young woman. “When we saw you yesterday we didn’t know you had been frozen twice. That makes a big difference, you know. One freezing produces a certain a-mount of cell deterioration; two freezings produce considerably more. I want to make sure that we’ve done as much restoration as possible before we let you out.”

“Well, how long is it going to be then, 119 doctor, before I get out?”

She shakes her head. She smiles and says, “Can’t say for sure. If your condition continues stable we’ll ask for government clearance for your release in two or three days. Meanwhile you keep eating those maraschino cherries. We’ll see how things go.”

“What’s the point of those cherries any way? They’re a strange supplement to the regular diet here.”

“Lots of preservatives. Very good for cell restoration.”

I sit up in the cramped bed. I feel fine. The tingling is gone. There is no more pain. Even the numbness where three toes had been is disappearing. But I want to be sure. “The Hays Syndrome,” I say, “what about that?”

The doctor smiles again. “Oh, that,” she says, “You can forget about that. No question a-bout it, BHT does the trick. We’ve done a number of administrations. No problem. You’re cured of that.”

_ I’m doubtful. This killer disease, it can’t be dismissed so lightly, I’m sure. “But how do you know?” I say. “Don’t you even do a residual mylotar test?” The words tumble out. I’m not even sure I know what residual mylotar is or where I have heard the term before, but the term is right. I know that.

The doctor laughs again, this time in a way that seems self-conscious. “No, Mr. Minton, we don’t do a residual mylotar test,” she says. “That was a torture chamber devised by a couple of English faddists. It was given up years ago. I can assure you it isn’t the least bit necessary.”

The young physician puts her arthoscope in a pocket over her firm breast and she starts to leave. “Another question,” I call. “I find my mind is very foggy. Sometimes I can’t remember things right. Can anything be done about that?” “That’s one of the things we’re working on,” she says. “It’s a symptom of the cell deterioration. You keep up the cherries. Can you stomach preserved ginger?” She doesn’t wait for a response, but adds, “I’ll prescribe some of that. You try it; it’s very good for this sort of problem.”

Again she starts to leave. Again I call her back. “Listen, doc,” I say. “If I’m going to have to stay here for a few days, don’t you think you can do something about this bed? It’s impossible.”

“Too soft?” she asks, pressing her hand on the mattress, near the foot of the bed.

“No, too short,” I grumble. “Are

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