They walked a little way down the corridor to where one of the rooms had its door propped open. Inside, Xander glimpsed the looming shape of a replicator against one wall. One of the two queen beds in the room was hastily pulled together into a semblance of order — obviously the doctor’s own bed — and the other was messily strewn with vaguely medical paraphernalia. The doctor cleared a space on the edge of the bed by sweeping everything further up against the pillows and helped Xander sit the girl down in the vacated spot; Xander turned and pivoted the other patient until he could push him down into the chair that was pulled away from the desk on which an open laptop rested.
“Give me a moment,” the doctor murmured, turning to grab a small flashlight and briefly shine it into the girl’s eye. “Well, she’s not catatonic,” he said.
“She just seems… a little brainwashed,” Xander said lamely.
“Surprising there aren’t more,” Dr. Cohen said. “I’ve got a mild sedative I can give her, and there’s a bed for her. She’ll be fine. I’ve an assistant — a nurse who was on her way to a conference somewhere south of here, I ran into her and coopted her — she’s with another patient at the moment, she’ll be here presently, and she’ll take care of this poor girl. What’s wrong with him?”
“Hard to say,” Xander murmured. “Just seemed a little… too focused… on stuff. And he had potential to start a riot down there.”
“Maybe he’ll benefit from a nap too,” the doctor said, “and when they both wake up again I can make a better assessment as to whether they can be released back into the general population. I gather from the name tags that these are both from your group, from the con, and not strays from the, uh, real world? Ah, there you are, Janine. Would you take over with the girl, please? She can share with Alison Janowicz for the moment, there’s a spare bed in that room. Just give her something to help her sleep, for now.”
“Come on, love, let’s go.” Janine, a short, stocky middle — aged woman with her hair pulled back into a severe graying bun, slipped an arm around the shoulders of the unresponsive girl who followed where she was guided and led, meekly, without an ounce of willpower or agency of her own.
“Let’s see about you,” the doctor said, turning to the other new patient.
“You aren’t wearing a red shirt. You’ll be fine,” the guy said helpfully.
“Thanks. Good to know. Wait here, please.” He walked over to the replicator, and requested an injectable sedative, barking out form and dosage in a manner that made Xander suddenly want to laugh out loud. He had a feeling the doctor himself would be starting to feel withdrawal symptoms if he were suddenly parted from this machine that gave him everything he wanted at the moment he needed it — no arguments, no questions, and no paperwork. The replicator delivered the required medication, and the doctor returned with the syringe in his right hand. “This won’t hurt,” he said soothingly to the patient. “Well, it might, a little. But it’ll help. There. We’ll see if you can’t just sleep it off, for now.”
“How’s the rest of them doing?” Xander asked.
“Mostly doing okay,” the doctor said, helping his sedated patient to his feet and supporting him as he staggered toward the door. “Let me settle this one down and I’ll be back. Just wait here, if you would.”
He headed down the empty corridor and Xander, who had followed him to the door and peered after him, saw him push open the door to another room about ten or so rooms away and edge his patient inside. It took him a solid five or so minutes before he re — emerged. Xander stepped out of the doctor’s own room and met him in the corridor.
“How many you got now?” Xander asked.
“Twenty five, thirty, something like that,” Dr. Cohen said. “They’re mostly sleeping right now. I’m keeping it that way, until we’re past the danger of them waking up and flinging their curtains open and finding themselves face to face with that thing that’s hanging out there.”
“Any problems?”
“I think I have a ghost hotel maid up here,” the doctor said, with a weary smile.
“Seriously?”
“Well, she is a corporeal enough ghost. There’s a cleaning cart that kind of hovers in the corridors, and it is occasionally accompanied by a dumpy little woman — she looks Mayan, if anything — who looks like she’s been crying but who tiptoes behind the cart when she thinks nobody is looking and knocks on any door without a Do Not Disturb sign on it with a hopeful little chirp of ‘Housekeeping?’ I once got close enough to see that she was wearing a name badge but all I could see was that her first name is Maria — and every time someone tries to approach her she runs off and disappears. I haven’t been able to nail her down, but I know she’s up here somewhere — and I’m kind of getting a little worried as to what she’s eaten or how much she’s had to drink in the past twenty four hours. But she’s like a cross between the Flying Dutchman and La Llorona…”
“I’ll tell security to grab her if they see her,” Xander said. “Anything else?”
“I have a woman two doors down who won’t get off her knees — she’s wearing out her rosary, and has told me four times that she is going to go straight to a convent and become a good nun as soon as she can get to such a place. I don’t know if this sudden vocation is just a psychological aberration or not but God knows I can’t deal with any such thing in depth here, with what I’ve got. I’m just holding everything down as best I can. If and when we all turn up back where we came from I suspect that there might be enough material here for an entire symposium.”
“You’ll let me know if you need anything?” Xander said lamely, after a pause, aware that it was beyond his power to offer any real assistance.
“Sure,” the doctor said. And then added, himself very aware of the situation and its problems, “Except, what can you do, but wait, just like the rest of us?”
“If I can help, I will,” Xander said. “I do kind of… feel responsible for them all.”
“Wrong place, wrong time,” Dr. Cohen said in a resigned tone. “Not much you can do about that at all except wait it out. But I’ll keep you guys posted.”
“Thanks, Doc. For all that you’re doing.”
“My job,” the doctor said, shrugging. “Someone’s got to do step up. Happened to be me.”
Having accomplished what he could, Xander took the elevator back down and threaded his way through the increasingly raucous revelers on the bottom floor of the party wing. He was starting to itch for his own view of the Moon… and there was another party already in full swing to which he had, after all, been invited, and which was now calling his name. He rode the elevator down to the ground floor and began to cross the lobby towards Tower 2 and its penthouse bar with the lunar perspectives he craved.
Halfway there, he glimpsed Sam Dutton and his young protégé, Marius, heading in the same direction.
“Hey, guys,” he said, catching up and tapping Sam on the shoulder. “Going up to the party?”
“The Callahan’s shindig? Heard about it. I think Andie Mae forgot to send my invitation, though.”
“Aw, come on. Tonight’s special. You can pick up the feud tomorrow. Come on, you don’t need an invitation. You’re with me. I am inviting you.”
Sam indicated Marius with a toss of his head. “He’s, um, not legal,” he said. “But…”
Xander tapped his nose with one finger, squinting at them. “In space,” he intoned, “no — one can see you drink… So long as you stick to club soda or virgin Shirley Temples, or even just promise me that you will, I won’t say anything if you don’t and I think all normal rules are suspended tonight anyway. What do you say, kid? Fantastic views, up there!”