Read Online I Will Fear No Evil by Robert Heinlein - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Heinlein
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planned it, we rehearsed it, we did it. How else? That’s a good team you got for me.”
“I take it you are saying the operation was successful?”
“‘—but the patient died.’ That’s the rest of the old saw.”
Jacob Salomon felt a wave of sorrow and relief. He sighed and answered, “Well, I expected it. Thank you, Doctor. I know you tried.”
“Slow down! I don’t mean that this patient died; I merely completed the cliché. The operation went exactly as planned; the patient was in satisfactory shape when I relinquished control to the support team.”
“Then you expect him to live?”
“ ‘It,’ not ‘he,’ That thing back there is not a human being and may never be. It won’t die, it can’t —unless one of your courts gives permission to switch off the machinery. That body is young and healthy; with the support it is receiving it can stay alive—as protoplasm, not as a human being—for any length of time. Years. And the brain was alive when I left; it was continuing to show strong alpha-wave response. It should stay alive, too; it is receiving blood supply from that healthy body. But whether that brain and that body will ever marry into a living human being—what church do you attend?”
“I don’t.”
“Too bad, I was about to suggest that you ring up God and ask Him , as I do not know. Since I saved the retinas and the inner ears—first surgeon ever to do that, by the bye, even though they call me a quack—it might be able to see and hear. Possibly. If the spinal cord fuses, it might regain some motor control, even be able to dispense with some of the artificial support. But I tell you the stark truth, Counselor, the most likely outcome is that that brain will never again be in touch with the outside world in any fashion.”
“I hope your misgivings are unfounded,” Salomon said mildly. “Your contingent fee depended on your achieving sight, hearing, and speech, at a minimum.”
“In a pig’s arse.”
“I’m not authorized to pay it otherwise. Sorry.”
“Wrong. There was mention of a bonus, a ridiculously large sum—which I ignored. Look, cobber, you shysters are allowed to work on contingent fees; we butchers have other rules. My fee is for operating. I operated. Finis. I’m an ethical surgeon, no matter what the barstahds say about me.”
“Which reminds me—” Salomon took an envelope from his pocket. “Here’s your fee.”
The surgeon pocketed it. Salomon said, “Aren’t you going to check it?”
“Why should I? Either I was paid in full. Or I sue. Either way, I couldn’t care less. Not now.”
“More beer?” Salomon opened another bottle of Down-Under dynamite. “You are paid. In full, in gold, in Switzerland—that envelope contains a note advising you of your account number. Plus an acknowledgment that we pay your expenses, all fees of assisting teams, all computer time, all hospital charges, whatever. But I hope, later, to pay that ‘ridiculous’ bonus, as you called it.”
“Oh, I won’t turn down a gift; research is expensive—and I do want to go on; I would like to be a respectable paragraph in medical histories . . . instead of being sneered at as a charlatan.”
“No doubt. Not quite my own reason.”
Boyle took a swig of beer and blinked thoughtfully. “I suppose I’ve been a stinker again. Sorry—I always come out of surgery in a vile mood. I forgot he is your friend.”
Salomon again felt that bittersweet wave of relief and sorrow. He answered carefully, “No, Johann Smith is not my friend.”
“So? I had an impression that he was.”
“Mr. Smith has no friends. I am a lawyer in his hire. As such, he is entitled to my loyalty.”
“I see. I’m glad you aren’t emotionally involved, as the prognosis on a brain transplant is never good—as I know better than anyone.” Boyle added thoughtfully, “It might work this time. It was a good tissue match, surprisingly good in view of the wide difference between donor and
“I take it you are saying the operation was successful?”
“‘—but the patient died.’ That’s the rest of the old saw.”
Jacob Salomon felt a wave of sorrow and relief. He sighed and answered, “Well, I expected it. Thank you, Doctor. I know you tried.”
“Slow down! I don’t mean that this patient died; I merely completed the cliché. The operation went exactly as planned; the patient was in satisfactory shape when I relinquished control to the support team.”
“Then you expect him to live?”
“ ‘It,’ not ‘he,’ That thing back there is not a human being and may never be. It won’t die, it can’t —unless one of your courts gives permission to switch off the machinery. That body is young and healthy; with the support it is receiving it can stay alive—as protoplasm, not as a human being—for any length of time. Years. And the brain was alive when I left; it was continuing to show strong alpha-wave response. It should stay alive, too; it is receiving blood supply from that healthy body. But whether that brain and that body will ever marry into a living human being—what church do you attend?”
“I don’t.”
“Too bad, I was about to suggest that you ring up God and ask Him , as I do not know. Since I saved the retinas and the inner ears—first surgeon ever to do that, by the bye, even though they call me a quack—it might be able to see and hear. Possibly. If the spinal cord fuses, it might regain some motor control, even be able to dispense with some of the artificial support. But I tell you the stark truth, Counselor, the most likely outcome is that that brain will never again be in touch with the outside world in any fashion.”
“I hope your misgivings are unfounded,” Salomon said mildly. “Your contingent fee depended on your achieving sight, hearing, and speech, at a minimum.”
“In a pig’s arse.”
“I’m not authorized to pay it otherwise. Sorry.”
“Wrong. There was mention of a bonus, a ridiculously large sum—which I ignored. Look, cobber, you shysters are allowed to work on contingent fees; we butchers have other rules. My fee is for operating. I operated. Finis. I’m an ethical surgeon, no matter what the barstahds say about me.”
“Which reminds me—” Salomon took an envelope from his pocket. “Here’s your fee.”
The surgeon pocketed it. Salomon said, “Aren’t you going to check it?”
“Why should I? Either I was paid in full. Or I sue. Either way, I couldn’t care less. Not now.”
“More beer?” Salomon opened another bottle of Down-Under dynamite. “You are paid. In full, in gold, in Switzerland—that envelope contains a note advising you of your account number. Plus an acknowledgment that we pay your expenses, all fees of assisting teams, all computer time, all hospital charges, whatever. But I hope, later, to pay that ‘ridiculous’ bonus, as you called it.”
“Oh, I won’t turn down a gift; research is expensive—and I do want to go on; I would like to be a respectable paragraph in medical histories . . . instead of being sneered at as a charlatan.”
“No doubt. Not quite my own reason.”
Boyle took a swig of beer and blinked thoughtfully. “I suppose I’ve been a stinker again. Sorry—I always come out of surgery in a vile mood. I forgot he is your friend.”
Salomon again felt that bittersweet wave of relief and sorrow. He answered carefully, “No, Johann Smith is not my friend.”
“So? I had an impression that he was.”
“Mr. Smith has no friends. I am a lawyer in his hire. As such, he is entitled to my loyalty.”
“I see. I’m glad you aren’t emotionally involved, as the prognosis on a brain transplant is never good—as I know better than anyone.” Boyle added thoughtfully, “It might work this time. It was a good tissue match, surprisingly good in view of the wide difference between donor and
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