Finally the MU said, “Now it’s time for your physical examination.”
Immediately a series of snake-like tentacles telescoped from its case holding dangerous-looking instruments. Several other appendages grabbed Jackson and lifted him off the bed. The next few minutes were a blur of dazzling lights shining in his eyes, tubes thrust in his ears and nose, and reflex hammers making his arms and legs jerk like a marionette’s.
Take a deep breath. Does it hurt when I press in like this? Turn your head to one side and cough. Disobedience was punished by sharp electrical jolts to sensitive areas. After checking his front side, the MU flipped him over like a flapjack and checked the other. Then it plopped him back on the bed.
“Overweight,” it reported. “Flabby muscles. Unremarkable male genitalia. But general health appears good.”
The administrator frowned. “I didn’t see you check him for hemorrhoids.”
The machine ruminated on that. “Oops.”
Two appendages grabbed him again and rotated him onto his stomach. Turning his head, Jackson saw the MU extrude a new sinuous tentacle—a thin glistening pink cable. It looked like the tongue of a ravenous anteater, and was headed toward his—.
The administrator nodded approvingly at the thorough, in-depth examination the MU was performing. “Excellent! It’s really getting to the bottom of things, isn’t it, Mr. Jackson?” Then, disappointed at the patient’s vehemently vulgar reply, he continued, “I’m sorry you don’t appreciate tongue-in-cheeks humor.”
After the administrator and his torture machine left, Jackson couldn’t sit on the bed without wincing. That *$%*@ “student” had a lot to learn about bedside manner!
His room was completely bare except for the bed. They’d taken his watch when he’d arrived, so he had no idea how long he’d been here. Searching with his implant for a nearby AI interface terminal produced no results. There had to be some elsewhere in the hospital, but they must be over ten meters away—out of range of his implant.
Utterly bored, he decided to go for a walk in the corridor outside. But he’d barely risen from the bed when an MU rolled up, blocking the doorway.
“I’m sorry, William N. Jackson. Patients must stay in their rooms to avoid interfering with our work or disturbing other patients.”
“That’s William M. Jackson. M, as in—oh, never mind. Isn’t there anything I can do while I’m waiting to get my operation? I’m going crazy sitting around like this!”
“For a nominal fee, a psychiatrist MU can do a consultation on you. It’s equipped with injectable psychotropic drugs, equipment for electroshock therapy—.”
“No, no, that’s just a figure of speech! What I mean is, could you get me a portable interface, a holoprojector—even just something to read?”
“For a nominal fee, you can rent an entertainment cart. Only 500 newdollars.”
“Five hundred! That’s robbery!”
“The cart contains printed and audiovisual material. Do you authorize us to charge you for it?”
“You can shove it up your—oh, all right! Better than going stir-crazy here!”
The unit returned pushing a rickety cart with squeaking wheels. One of its shelves held moldy yellowed newspapers. A headline proclaimed, “Elvis Clone Marries Alien Bigfoot Princess!” Jackson snorted. Really old news. Happened twenty-five years ago. That particular clone was now a grandfather.
The MU zoomed away without explaining how to work the archaic electronic equipment atop the cart. They resembled devices he’d last seen in kindergarten. A “TV” and—what’d they called it—a “BCR.”
Turning the TV on produced only crackling static. Then he found a mysterious rectangular object several centimeters thick made of black plastic. It fit perfectly into the slot on the front of the BCR.
Suddenly two-dimensional moving pictures limited to shades of gray appeared on the TV. The program it showed was a historical drama—mid-20th century by the look of the clothes and vehicles. A voluptuous young woman became distraught after realizing she’d developed an alarming health problem. She contacted her doctor, who told her to come to his office immediately. Instantly she was in his examining room, tantalizingly dressed in a diaphanous gown. Two men in white coats finished their examination and looked at her gravely. The handsome younger doctor’s eyes betrayed more than medical interest in her body as his white-haired mentor informed her she had a very serious disease. It had an ominous Latin-sounding name which clearly implied she wasn’t long for this world. Jackson was startled to see the patriarchal physician sympathetically explaining his findings bore an uncanny resemblance to the hospital administrator.
The rest of the program detailed the two physicians’ intense efforts to help the woman. The younger spent all his time comforting her, lending his broad shoulders for her to cry on. Soon their feelings for each other blossomed into a tragic love—her illness obviously prevented them from consummating their relationship. Meanwhile the older doctor labored to help her in his own way, searching for weeks through the latest medical journals and textbooks in that primitive pre-PC age—trying desperately to see if researchers had finally discovered a cure for her painful condition.
Then, when all seemed lost, he found it. Back again in his office, the woman sobbed gratefully as the senior physician gave her the good news. The treatment hed prescribed had completely cured her severe case of pediculosis pubis! At the final fade-out, the coy looks exchanged between the woman and the younger doctor indicated that, her cure complete, their relationship would soon become more than platonic.
Jackson gazed yearningly at the smiling elderly physician on the TV, and wiped tears from his own eyes. Why can’t I get a doctor like that?
After turning off the TV, Jackson felt his stomach gurgle noisily. As an MU skittered by his doorway he called, “When’s mealtime?”
The unit stopped, and ejected a small object which struck him lightly in the chest. It was a bag of honey roasted peanuts. They were stale, but better than nothing. He’d gulped the snack down before noticing the “Best if used by” legend on the bag was dated two years ago.
The MU said, “May I have the bag, sir? The hospital gets a newdollar for every hundred we send back for recycling.”
“Here! Now when do I get a meal?”
The MU whirred softly. “That was your meal, sir.”
“What!”
“For a nominal fee, we can provide you with a more filling meal. Only 1000 newdollars. Do you authorize payment?”
“Hell, no! I’d rather starve to death than pay that much for a meal!”
“Starving to death takes many days, sir. For a nominal fee, I can have a kevorkiologist MU come and make the process nearly instantaneous.”
“No! That’s not what I meant!”
The MU’s optical sensor moved menacingly toward his face. “Which would you like me to bring, sir—the kevorkiologist, or a meal?”
The tone in its voice indicated those were his only two choices. “The meal…”
What it brought looked like baby food. Each recessed compartment of the rusty metal tray contained an unidentifiable pureed “delicacy” colored bright red, green, or blue. The “nominal fee” for a spoon was a bargain—100 newdollars. Though the meal smelled and tasted like something died in it, he ate every bite. Partly because he was hungry. But mainly because he thought it might be his last.