him.
Keeping some twenty feet apart, the two men walked the length of the aisle, ignoring other workers as assiduously as they did each other, and finally entered the bathroom.
Steam filled much of the large chamber, steam from recycled wash water that provided one of the few real luxuries for the workers. Loud voices echoed off the walls. Drenched, soapy men moved about in the open shower area, careful never to come in contact with the exposed pipes carrying the hot water. Other workers groomed themselves in front of mirrors.
The waste stalls were located near the far side of the chamber. Spota entered one, closed the door carefully behind him.
A few seconds later the man who'd left his bunk occupied the stall next to him. There was the usual wait, then he reemerged and left. Shortly afterward, Spota came out and headed for the exit. The worker returned to his bunk, Spota to an aisle leading out of the dormitory via an accessway different from the one he'd entered by.
They drew the attention of no one, which was exactly what they wanted.
The hospital was cleaner than the workers' dorms but far more cluttered, despite the built-ins and space-saving devices. The instrumentational overkill was necessary. The modest medical section had to serve the entire mine as dispensary, infirmary, emergency room, surgery, pharmacy, laboratory, and diagnostic center.
It was not patterned after the advanced, gleaming clinics found in similar locales on Earth. This was a place for repairing, not rebuilding. For fixing up, not researching. Its nearest analog at the mine was not the workers' quarters but the engineering shed where important mine machinery was patched up. It was no secret that the machine repairs were usually more permanent than those performed on the workers.
That was the hospital's primary function: to keep the mine's organic components operating. Its duties beyond that were quite limited, reflected both in its equipment and personnel.
It had a full-time staff of eight, whose importance was secondary to that of the diagnostic machines. The staff was aware of their position in the medical hierarchy and it didn't bother them. On the contrary, they were glad of it. It was much easier to let the machines make the important decisions.
There were four nurses, three paramedics, and Dr. Marian L. Lazarus, who was sick of jokes about rising from the dead.
To new arrivals she was a figure ripe for fun, an easy target. They got the word quickly— don't joke with Lazarus. You just might find yourself in the infirmary some day with a busted leg or worse, and the last joke would be on you. The doctor was not noted for a tolerant sense of humor.
Lazarus was a rumpled older woman whose expression could shift rapidly from that found in a Goya war etching to the bright face of an alert twelve-year-old. The former predominated. Her eyes were gray and belonged to someone much prettier, which she had once been.
Her clothing was less disciplined than her hair. She looked sloppy in her hospital fatigues. Somehow she gave the impression that nothing ever excited her.
Her own personal bailiwick was located at the back of the hospital section. Despite the inherent efficiency of the built-in equipment and self-contained beds, she'd managed to personalize her area with bits and pieces of what could be described as medicated rubble. Garbage traditionally is one of the anthropologist's most useful tools for telling us what the people of a particular culture were like. Lazarus's lab table and the area immediately around it were very descriptive.
O'Niel walked into the hospital, past the admiring stare of the admitting nurse. His gaze flicked left and right, taking note of the state of the equipment and the other workers, a sick man in a bed, and the fact that the area was at least clean.
He had a special interest in hospitals, having had occasion in the course of his work to make use of their facilities. Sometimes personally, far more often
Keeping some twenty feet apart, the two men walked the length of the aisle, ignoring other workers as assiduously as they did each other, and finally entered the bathroom.
Steam filled much of the large chamber, steam from recycled wash water that provided one of the few real luxuries for the workers. Loud voices echoed off the walls. Drenched, soapy men moved about in the open shower area, careful never to come in contact with the exposed pipes carrying the hot water. Other workers groomed themselves in front of mirrors.
The waste stalls were located near the far side of the chamber. Spota entered one, closed the door carefully behind him.
A few seconds later the man who'd left his bunk occupied the stall next to him. There was the usual wait, then he reemerged and left. Shortly afterward, Spota came out and headed for the exit. The worker returned to his bunk, Spota to an aisle leading out of the dormitory via an accessway different from the one he'd entered by.
They drew the attention of no one, which was exactly what they wanted.
The hospital was cleaner than the workers' dorms but far more cluttered, despite the built-ins and space-saving devices. The instrumentational overkill was necessary. The modest medical section had to serve the entire mine as dispensary, infirmary, emergency room, surgery, pharmacy, laboratory, and diagnostic center.
It was not patterned after the advanced, gleaming clinics found in similar locales on Earth. This was a place for repairing, not rebuilding. For fixing up, not researching. Its nearest analog at the mine was not the workers' quarters but the engineering shed where important mine machinery was patched up. It was no secret that the machine repairs were usually more permanent than those performed on the workers.
That was the hospital's primary function: to keep the mine's organic components operating. Its duties beyond that were quite limited, reflected both in its equipment and personnel.
It had a full-time staff of eight, whose importance was secondary to that of the diagnostic machines. The staff was aware of their position in the medical hierarchy and it didn't bother them. On the contrary, they were glad of it. It was much easier to let the machines make the important decisions.
There were four nurses, three paramedics, and Dr. Marian L. Lazarus, who was sick of jokes about rising from the dead.
To new arrivals she was a figure ripe for fun, an easy target. They got the word quickly— don't joke with Lazarus. You just might find yourself in the infirmary some day with a busted leg or worse, and the last joke would be on you. The doctor was not noted for a tolerant sense of humor.
Lazarus was a rumpled older woman whose expression could shift rapidly from that found in a Goya war etching to the bright face of an alert twelve-year-old. The former predominated. Her eyes were gray and belonged to someone much prettier, which she had once been.
Her clothing was less disciplined than her hair. She looked sloppy in her hospital fatigues. Somehow she gave the impression that nothing ever excited her.
Her own personal bailiwick was located at the back of the hospital section. Despite the inherent efficiency of the built-in equipment and self-contained beds, she'd managed to personalize her area with bits and pieces of what could be described as medicated rubble. Garbage traditionally is one of the anthropologist's most useful tools for telling us what the people of a particular culture were like. Lazarus's lab table and the area immediately around it were very descriptive.
O'Niel walked into the hospital, past the admiring stare of the admitting nurse. His gaze flicked left and right, taking note of the state of the equipment and the other workers, a sick man in a bed, and the fact that the area was at least clean.
He had a special interest in hospitals, having had occasion in the course of his work to make use of their facilities. Sometimes personally, far more often
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