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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 123 из 164But in the barracks he screamed and wept again, and as Foyle led him down the long room, the naked bawds swept up armfuls of dirty clothes and shookthem before his eyes. Kempsey foamed and gibbered.
«What's a matter, him?» Foyle inquired of the hairless man in the gutter patois.
The hairless man was now a respectful neutral if not a friend. «Guesses for grabs,» he answered. «Always like that, him. Show old clothes and he twitch. Man!»
«For why, already?»
«For why? Crazy, is all.»
At the main-office airlock, Foyle got Kempsey and himself corked in suits and then led him out to the rocket field where a score of anti-gray beams pointed their pale fingers upward from pits to the gibbous earth hanging in the night sky. They entered a pit, entered Foyle's yawl and uncorked. Foyle took a bottle and a sting ampule from a cabinet. He poured a drink and handed it to Kempsey. He hefted the ampule in his palm, smiling.
Kempsey drank the whiskey, still dazed, still exulting. «Free,» he muttered. «God bless him! Free. You don't know what I've been through.» He drank again. «I still can't believe it. It's like a dream. Why don't you take off, man? I…” Kempsey choked and dropped the glass, staring at Foyle in horror. «Your face!» he exclaimed. «My God, your face! What happened to it?»
«You happened to it, you son of a bitch!» Foyle cried. He leaped up, his tiger face burning, and flung the ampule like a knife. It pierced Kempsey's neck and hung quivering. Kempsey toppled.
Foyle accelerated, blurred to the body, picked it up in mid-fall and carried it aft to the starboard stateroom. There were two main staterooms in the yawl, and Foyle had prepared both of them in advance. The starboard room had been stripped and turned into a surgery. Foyle strapped the body on the operating table, opened a case of surgical instruments, and began the delicate operation he had learned by hypno-training that morning . . . an operation made possible only by his five-to-one acceleration.
He cut through skin and fascia, sawed through the rib cage, exposed the heart, dissected it out and connected veins and arteries to the intricate blood pump alongside the table. He started the pump. Twenty seconds, objective time, had elapsed. He placed an oxygen mask over Kempsey's face and switched on the alternating suction and ructation of the oxygen pump.
Foyle decelerated, checked Kempsey's temperature, shot an anti-shock series into his veins and waited. Blood gurgled through the pump and Kempsey's body. After five minutes, Foyle removed the oxygen mask. The respiration reflex continued. Kempsey was without a heart, yet alive. Foyle sat down alongside the operating table and waited.
«What's a matter, him?» Foyle inquired of the hairless man in the gutter patois.
The hairless man was now a respectful neutral if not a friend. «Guesses for grabs,» he answered. «Always like that, him. Show old clothes and he twitch. Man!»
«For why, already?»
«For why? Crazy, is all.»
At the main-office airlock, Foyle got Kempsey and himself corked in suits and then led him out to the rocket field where a score of anti-gray beams pointed their pale fingers upward from pits to the gibbous earth hanging in the night sky. They entered a pit, entered Foyle's yawl and uncorked. Foyle took a bottle and a sting ampule from a cabinet. He poured a drink and handed it to Kempsey. He hefted the ampule in his palm, smiling.
Kempsey drank the whiskey, still dazed, still exulting. «Free,» he muttered. «God bless him! Free. You don't know what I've been through.» He drank again. «I still can't believe it. It's like a dream. Why don't you take off, man? I…” Kempsey choked and dropped the glass, staring at Foyle in horror. «Your face!» he exclaimed. «My God, your face! What happened to it?»
«You happened to it, you son of a bitch!» Foyle cried. He leaped up, his tiger face burning, and flung the ampule like a knife. It pierced Kempsey's neck and hung quivering. Kempsey toppled.
Foyle accelerated, blurred to the body, picked it up in mid-fall and carried it aft to the starboard stateroom. There were two main staterooms in the yawl, and Foyle had prepared both of them in advance. The starboard room had been stripped and turned into a surgery. Foyle strapped the body on the operating table, opened a case of surgical instruments, and began the delicate operation he had learned by hypno-training that morning . . . an operation made possible only by his five-to-one acceleration.
He cut through skin and fascia, sawed through the rib cage, exposed the heart, dissected it out and connected veins and arteries to the intricate blood pump alongside the table. He started the pump. Twenty seconds, objective time, had elapsed. He placed an oxygen mask over Kempsey's face and switched on the alternating suction and ructation of the oxygen pump.
Foyle decelerated, checked Kempsey's temperature, shot an anti-shock series into his veins and waited. Blood gurgled through the pump and Kempsey's body. After five minutes, Foyle removed the oxygen mask. The respiration reflex continued. Kempsey was without a heart, yet alive. Foyle sat down alongside the operating table and waited.