Monument (novel)

9

There were two fires on the beach, and they produced an enormous halo of light that not only illuminated the spectators crowding the hillside but also touched off spectacular flashes in the breaking wave caps. Between the fires a musician had set up his instrument. A nab, Aric Hort called it, and it was constructed of a gourd twice as tall as the musician and of tremendous circumference. Talitha’s first incredulous conclusion was that it took one musician to play the thing and two to hold it down, because two members of the audience were seated atop the gourd. Later, when they began to stomp their feet, she learned that they were drummers.

The musician struck his first tones, and the native festival was under way. For a time nothing happened but the rhythmic thum… thum… thum of the nab strings. Then another musician joined him.

He played the same instrument.

Sets of strings were stretched from a yoke near the top to a wood collar near the bottom. The nab was not an instrument; it was many instruments. More musicians joined in, each on another set of strings, until Talitha counted eight playing one nab. Probably there were others hidden by the instrument. The rhythm took on fantastic complexities.

Then the drummers began punctuating the thums with their vigorous stomping, marking off new rhythmic complexities with a thud… thud… thud. An orchestra began to assemble about the nab, and smaller drums and stringed instruments joined in. Then the colorfully costumed dancers entered. The young men circled one fire, the young women the other.

The lines broke off and interwove as the groups changed fires. The lines broke off again and began to weave through the spectators. Several of the young women tried to coax Talitha into the dance as they passed her.

She shook her head. “I don’t know how.”

Hort, seated beside her, got up and tried to pull her to her feet. “Go ahead,” he said. “It’s the custom—they’re making an honored guest of you. Just do what they do.”

Her uncle, seated nearby, was smiling encouragement at her. The natives around her seemed delighted. The movements did not look difficult, so she succumbed and let the girls lead her away.

For a time she thought she was not doing badly, though the steps quickly became more intricate. They circled a fire and broke off to weave through the line of young men. Aric Hort smiled at her as they passed; the young men had pulled him into the dance.

The men returned to form a circle around the girls, and she found herself paired off with Hort. The dance picked up speed, the steps became more and more difficult, but they blundered along until they were exhausted. Laughing, gasping for breath, they staggered back to their places.

When she had caught her breath, Talitha looked about her at the rapt audience of natives. She nudged Hort. “Why aren’t Fornri and Dalla dancing?”

“It’s like I told you—Fornri is the leader. He seems to have forsworn marriage. He and Dalla are sweethearts, but they aren’t dancing. Dalla isn’t happy about that, but she’s not accepting any other offers.”

“What’s that got to do with dancing?” Talitha demanded.

“It’s a betrothal dance.”

She stared at him. “Betrothal dance? You mean—you and I—”

“Only on Langri,” he said with superb nonchalance.

Angrily she slapped his face and dashed off into the night. At the top of the slope she looked back. The throbbing pulse of the music, the blend of color and intricate movement, gripped and exhilarated her.

Then she saw Aric Hort anxiously looking about for her, and she laughed merrily.

Lying on the beach, hand cupping her chin, looking thoughtfully out to sea, she made up her mind. Ahead of her she could anticipate only dreamy, lethargic days too frequently interrupted by long monologues from her uncle and Aric Hort. Her uncle was preoccupied with the brilliant new projects he was devising. Hort was obsessed with one trivial mystery after another.

Her uncle was determined to help the natives, and obviously they didn’t want to be helped. Hort was intent on studying them, and they didn’t want to be studied. What they did want was to be left alone, and that was perfectly satisfactory to her.

She heard her uncle’s booming voice and the usual chorus of farewell from his native retinue. Resignedly she got to her feet, gathered up the robe she’d been lying on, and walked determinedly toward the embassy office.

As she dropped the door open, they turned toward her: her uncle, Hirus Ayns, and Aric Hort. They were about to drink a toast, and they held tumblers raised.

Her uncle greeted her with a smile. “You’re just in time, Tal.” He filled another tumbler. “Join our celebration. Fornri has accepted my suggestion about the drainage ditches. They’ll start work on them in the morning.”

He offered her the tumbler, and in a sudden burst of anger she struck it to the floor. “You fools!” she exclaimed.

Ayns and Hort stood frozen with tumblers raised. Her uncle stared at her dumbfoundedly.

“Can’t you see they are laughing at you?” she demanded. “You work from dawn to dark just tramping about trying to help them, and when they condescend to accept a suggestion, like your precious ferries, they give it to the children to play with. Now I suppose you’ll expect me to pose for pictures in your drainage ditches!”

She marched to the window and stood there with her back to them, looking out. “Langri is a lovely world,” she said. “The singing and dancing are charming, and the food is delicious, and it’s a nice place for a vacation, and I’ve had one. I’m leaving on the next courier ship.”

Her uncle said quietly, “You’re free to leave whenever you like, Tal.”

She turned and faced them. Hort was struggling to conceal his embarrassment. He suddenly became aware that he still held a drink in his hand, and he downed it. Wembling and Ayns did the same.

Talitha, looking past them through another window, asked, “What’s this?”

Natives had landed a boat just below the embassy, and they were walking up from the beach carrying a segment of gourd with what looked like a pile of blankets on it. Fornri led the way. Dalla, weeping, walked at one side.

Aric Hort dashed to meet them, with Wembling and Ayns following on his heels. Talitha, after long hesitation, trailed after them. When she finally reached them, the procession of natives had halted, and Hort was bending over the segment of gourd.

He peeled back the blankets and gazed down at an unconscious child.

Dabbi.

Her eyes were closed. Her small, pinched face looked violently feverish. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.

Hort spoke incredulously, and his agony throbbed in every syllable. “Not—the Hot Sickness?”

Fornri said gravely, “She cut her foot. On a sharp rock, we think. And now—”

His voice broke. Hort turned away, brushing his eyes with a gesture, and the procession followed him. They turned off and took the path to the rear, where Hort’s quarters were located. He hurried on ahead, dropped the door open, and stood waiting for them.

When Talitha entered the room at the end of the procession, Hort had folded out a bed and lifted the child onto it. The natives, except for Fornri and Dalla, took the gourd stretcher and left at once. Hort knelt beside the bed and gently loosened the blankets, exposing Dabbi’s foot and leg.

Talitha gasped. Both were hideously swollen to twice, three times their normal size.

Hort straightened up slowly. “I can try something different,” he said. “We might possibly learn from it, but I’m afraid she’s going to die.”

Dalla knelt at the head of the bed and continued to weep soundlessly. Fornri, still grave and courteous despite his obvious grief, said politely, “We understand. The Hot Sickness always brings death, and we are grateful for your attempts to find a cure. Please do what you can.”

He bent over the bed, placed his hand for a moment on Dabbi’s forehead, and then he turned and left the room. As he did so, Wembling stepped forward and spoke to Hort, who stood looking down at the sick child.

“How long are they going to be here?” Wembling demanded.

“Only until the child dies.”

Wembling shrugged resignedly. “Well—keep them quiet.”

He went out. Hort moved a chair into position beside the bed and started to examine Dabbi’s leg again. Now Talitha edged forward. “Why did they wait so long?” she asked angrily.

Hort looked up at her blankly. “This probably didn’t happen much over an hour ago.”

“What is it?”

“Some kind of blood poisoning. Our antibiotics have no effect on it. I’ve been trying them in combination, and the last pair kept the victim alive for eight days, but he died just as certainly as if I’d left him alone, and a great deal more painfully. The only thing I can do now is try a stronger dose of the same thing and see how she reacts.”

Talitha knelt beside the bed and conducted her own examination, but she could draw no conclusion except that the infection was appallingly virulent. “How do you administer your antibiotics?” she asked.

“By mouth if the patient is conscious. Otherwise, by absorption. I’ve been afraid to use the injector.”

“When an infection has spread this much, it’s too late for oral or absorbent applications,” she said dryly. “Let me see your medical kit.”

Hort wheeled the kit from the closet. She noted with relief that it was prime rated and had been renewed within the past year. She quickly rolled it into position, clipped a surgical mask to her nostrils, sprayed on a pair of gloves, and began a quick but thorough examination of the patient. She drew a blood sample by palm osmosis, and while the kit analyzed it she taped a cardio-sensor to Dabbi’s chest and monitored the faltering heartbeat.

“What did you give the last patient—the one that lived eight days?” she asked.

“Kornox Four and Cybolithon.”

“Dosage?”

“Half normal for each. I figured mixing the medicines was experiment enough, and two halves made a whole.”

While the cardiograph continued to click its appallingly irregular pictures of Dabbi’s heartbeat, the blood analysis data drifted across the screen: WBC 18,440 [] ZYN 9+ [] W3W 7.5 [] BUN 38 [] CPK 790 [] BROS 1,125 [] GAMMA GT 2,220 [] XRX 8.4 [] PY4 0- [] SGOT 57 [] RRR 190 [] SGPT 55 [] EBD 440 [] BILIRUBIN 3.5 [] MIC 99 [] DQS…

Her memory of blood analysis norms was fuzzy, but even without the red warning tabs she would have recognized the scientific confirmation of what Hort already had said: this was a dying child. She turned off the cardiograph and punched the code for the antibiotics chart. She read the data on Kornox Four and Cybolithon, read it again, read it a third time. She had been working quickly and confidently, but thus far she had followed a routine practiced countless times.

Now, with a dying patient before her, she was forced to make a medical decision light-years beyond her competence, and she was frightened.

She dared not hesitate. A delayed decision, even if right, could be as fatal as a wrong decision. “Unless we act quickly, she won’t live an hour,” she said quietly to Hort. “Is it possible to consult her parents?”

“Her parents are dead,” Hort said. “Dalla is her sister. You can consult her.”

Dalla was still kneeling at the head of the bed. Talitha knelt beside her. “If we do nothing, she’ll die quickly. If we give her too much medicine, we may cure the disease and kill her with the medicine. I can only guess and hope. Are you willing for me to try?”

Dalla’s face was tear-stained, her expression agonized, but she did not hesitate. She said calmly, “Yes. Please.”

Talitha swung the injector over Dabbi’s leg, radiated it, punched the code for .55 of the specified dosages of the two antibiotics, mixed them, and threw the switch. She examined Dabbi’s leg immediately to make certain that the injection had not filtered improperly; but the puffy flesh was unbroken, and she could not even find the usual upwelling of fluid. She radiated the leg again and pushed the medical kit aside.

“Now all we can do is try to control the fever and wait,” she announced.

“Is there anything I can do?” Dalla asked.

“I’ll fix a vol solution. We’ll have to keep spraying her to get the fever down. Otherwise, if your religion has any gods that are well disposed, you might try praying. That’s what I’m going to do.”

She mixed the solution and set Dalla and Hort to spraying the patient. Then she stripped off her gloves, returned the mask to the sterilizer, and went to stand at the window. She’d thought her medical career long since washed out; unexpectedly she’d drawn her first and probably her last patient, and she was forced to search her mind for deliberately forgotten data and dicta while frantically reviewing her performance for fatal errors committed and crucial procedures overlooked.

Outside the building, the natives who had brought Dabbi, Fornri with them, sat on the ground in a circle in prayerlike meditation. None of them moved a muscle. It was dusk now, and her uncle, walking from his office to the commissary, had to circle them. He paid no attention to the natives, and their attention was fixed on the infinite.

She returned to her patient, took Dabbi’s hand, and watched the small, flushed face. The sprayers hissed continuously, but the fever was not dropping. The child’s breathing seemed more labored. Certainly they were too late, and yet—and yet—

With all of the fervor her mind could command she willed the child to live. It came to her as a revelation that this small creature was not a semihuman animal from the most uncivilized of worlds. She belonged to the universe of children, and no sick child, anywhere, was significantly different from any other sick child.

Looking at Dalla’s agonized face, Talitha suddenly wondered if there was also a universe of people.

The room was growing dark, and Hort got up and adjusted the illumination to a subdued glow. As the night wore on, Dalla finally succumbed to sleep and huddled on the floor by the bed. Eventually Hort followed her. With Dabbi’s fever finally in check, Talitha stopped the spraying and covered her lightly. She continued to watch, leaving her patient only when she moved quietly about the room in an attempt to keep herself awake. And whenever she looked from the window, the natives, dimly visible in the pale light that seeped from the sickroom, sat unmoving in their circle.

At dawn, dozing in her chair, she snapped to instant wakefulness and bent over Dabbi in alarm. The child’s eyes were open. She was looking about the room bewilderedly and attempting to sit up.

Dalla awakened with a cry. Hort sprang up, and as he did so the door dropped open and Fornri bounded into the room. All watched tensely while Talitha examined her patient.

The swelling in the leg and foot was miraculously reduced, and she no longer was feverish. Hort exclaimed incredulously, “Then—she’s going to be all right!”

Talitha was anxiously watching the cardiograph. Finally she pushed the medical kit aside. Dabbi sat up, smiling, and Dalla leaned over and embraced her. Fornri stood beaming down on them.

Talitha said quietly to Hort, “Her heart action is very erratic. I should have studied the literature before I administered the medicine. Combinations of medications can be terribly dangerous. Do you have a medical referencer?”

“In the office,” Hort said. “But it’s a small one, and it hasn’t a thing about pairing antibiotics. Believe me, I checked every shred of information available. I thought I might as well gamble, because the patients were going to die anyway. What’s the matter with her heart?”

“I don’t know,” Talitha said. She felt so weary, so indescribably weary. She had been fighting for a child’s life, and now she did not know what to do, and her fight was merely to hold back her tears. “I’ll have a look at the referencer anyway,” she said. “No, I’ll go. If I don’t move around a bit I’ll collapse.” She said to Dalla, “Keep her covered. She might catch a chill—though what that means in terms of Langri’s viruses I have no idea.”

“Nor does anyone else,” Hort growled.

The natives no longer were sitting in their circle. They were excitedly peering through the windows. Talitha plodded slowly to the office building, found the medical referencer, and began to punch out questions. Finally she slumped back in the chair, eyes closed. Perhaps the question was too complex for this machine’s programming, or perhaps the pairing of antibiotics was such a medical blunder that the programmer thought it unnecessary to mention it.

She buried her face in her hands and wept fearlessly—wept from exhaustion and frustration. Then, with a wrench of determination, she stonily got to her feet and started back to the sick-room. She was almost there when she heard Dalla’s scream.

Dalla was on her knees by the bed, face buried in the blankets, sobbing. Fornri stood with head bowed. Hort turned toward her as she entered, an expression of stunned grief on his face.

Talitha rushed to the bed and bent over Dabbi. Then she straightened up, shaking her head.

“It was her heart,” she said bitterly. “The medicine killed her.”