Afterwards Jackson tried to sleep. But every time he dozed off a new MU woke him up.
Time to check your vital signs, sir.
Would you like a sleeping pill, sir?
I need a blood specimen, sir. Here’s your do-it-yourself venipuncture kit. Or, for a nominal fee of 1,500 newdollars, I can draw it for you.
Need a bedpan, sir? Only 2,000 newdollars—and the first piece of toilet paper is free.
Once, Jackson thought he’d gotten the better of one of those damnably polite machines. The meal he’d eaten earlier was giving him heartburn. Informed of his distress, an MU asked if he’d like some medicine for it.
Jackson snatched the white pill the machine offered him and quickly swallowed it.
“The charge for the pill is 500 newdollars, sir. Do you authorize payment?”
Jackson grinned triumphantly. “No, I don’t! What re you going to do about it?”
Immediately the MU shot a half dozen appendages toward him, holding his head and prying his jaws open. As another tentacle clutching what looked like a garden hose moved toward his mouth, Jackson gurgled “I’ll pay!”
The appendages retracted. “A wise decision, sir. There would’ve been an additional 1,000 newdollar charge for suctioning your stomach.”
Jackson cringed when the next MU entered his room. “Sir, I need to take you to the X-ray department.”
Jackson smiled. At last he was going to leave his cell, if only temporarily!
The dark dirty corridor outside was filled with scuttling MUs. White ones with “Medical Device,” “Data-process-ing Observer,” “Robotic Nurse,” or “Laborsaving Programmable Nurse” printed on their sides. Red ones, like the unit that had sucked blood from his arm, labeled “Hematologic Mechanical Operator.” Blue ones like the MU taking him to X-ray—“Cybernetic Medical Technologists.” And ominous black ones—“Digital Restraining Guards”—escorting other worried-looking patients.
A rickety elevator took them down to the ground floor. The MU led him into a large room containing ancient, ceiling-high machines covered with dials and switches. A portly man dressed in a blue scrub suit stood frowning in front of the equipment. Jackson glanced at his own flimsy paper gown, then enviously at the man’s uniform.
The MU addressed the man. “He needs a chest X-ray.”
“OK! Would you please step over here, Mr.—?”
“Jackson. William M. Jackson.”
“Press your chest against this plate while I put the X-ray camera behind you.”
As Jackson complied the MU said, “I’ll return shortly to escort you back to your room.”
After it trundled off Jackson muttered, “Don’t hurry.” Then, to the man, “I was beginning to think this place didn’t have any human beings working here. Just machines.”
The man walked to a control panel. “Oh, I don’t work here. The MU that normally operates this equipment is being repaired, so they asked me to fill in for it in exchange for this neat scrub suit I’m wearing. Actually, I’m a chef—in here for gall bladder surgery tomorrow.”
He twisted several knobs. “Can’t remember exactly what settings they told me to use. Maybe it works like a microwave oven. Let’s turn this ‘kilovolt’ knob over to maximum power… and X-ray exposure time to ten minutes. If that’s not long enough, I’ll just ‘cook’ you some more!”
The man flipped a switch. “Hey, Mr. Jackson, come back! You’re not done yet!”
As Jackson ran out into the hallway he heard a continuous buzzing sound—followed seconds later by a muffled explosion. Glancing back, he saw smoke pouring from the room he’d vacated. Several MUs raced past him toward it, ignoring him. Taking advantage of the distraction, he crouched in a doorway while more machines passed. When the coast was clear he crept carefully down the deserted hallway. Finally, rounding a corner, at the other end of the corridor he saw something that filled him with sudden hope. An “Exit” sign.
Hemorrhoids or no hemorrhoids, he had to escape! With his luck, the surgeon MU would be broken too—and he’d get operated on by a plumber dressed in a nice new scrub suit reading “Surgery Made Simple”!
Sneaking toward the exit, Jackson passed a closed door marked “Obstetrics.” Behind it he heard a faint sharp slap and a baby cry. An MU said, “It’s a boy, ma’am. Now drive down to the next window, pay your bill, and then we’ll give him to you.” There was the sound of a car engine starting—.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Jackson froze—then turned around. The MU said, “Please follow me back to your room.”
“Uh—I’ve decided not to have the surgery. I just want to go home—.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s our duty to ensure your health care needs are properly met.”
“That’s OK, I—ouch!”
His arm locked in the MU’s steely grip, Jackson had no choice but to meekly comply. The elevator they entered stopped briefly on the second floor—and then he saw it. At the other end of the long hallway.
An AI interface.
Desperately he tried using his implant to link with it. Maybe he could communicate with the hospital’s central AI system. Override the MU’s programming so it’d let him leave—.
But it didn’t work. The interface was too far away to access. The elevator doors closed, and soon he was back in his room.
The MU said, “Good news, sir! I’ve just received confirmation your operation is next on the schedule.”
Though it didn’t have a face, the machine seemed to smile. “Soon they’ll be coming to take you away.”
Jackson shuffled slowly down a long corridor, flanked on either side by two white MUs. A husky DRG unit followed directly behind him, blocking his only escape route as he walked the last mile—
In the operating room, several MUs laid him on his back on a hard table and dowsed his bare groin with icy brown fluid.
“Why do you have to shave off that hair?”
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s necessary.”
“Well, be careful with that razor. I don’t want you cutting off anything down there except hemorrhoids!”
The MU tilted its optical sensor quizzically at him, then resumed its barbering.
Next they laid a large drape with a hole in its center over him. As he shivered in the freezing room, another MU entered. It held two long appendages raised in front of it, dripping with lubricating oil, while another unit slipped long plastic sheaths over them. The machine rolled over to Jackson. “Hello, sir. I will be your surgeon today.”
“Uh—you have done this kind of surgery before, haven’t you?”
“Don’t worry, sir. After I’m through, you’ll fed like a new person.”
Another MU at the head of the table placed a rubber mask over his mouth and nose. “The anesthetic,” it explained.
After a few breaths Jackson felt drowsy. The surgeon MU said, “Once you’re asleep, we’ll begin the operation. After making an inverted-U perineal scrotal skin incision, I will perform a bilateral orchiectomy, then complete the procedure following a deep perineal dissection.”
Now barely conscious, Jackson mumbled through the mask, “Is that what you call an operation to treat hemorrhoids?”
The surgeon MU held a sharp gleaming scalpel poised over his groin. “No, William N. Jackson. The procedure I’ll perform is commonly referred to as a sex change operation.”
The fog in his brain cleared slowly. He was floating in the clouds, drifting slowly back to Earth, light as a thistle—
Oh my God!
Jackson snapped awake, remembering the operating room. He was back in the bed in his old room. Heart pounding, he pulled up his gown—and gasped in relief. Everything was still there.