"Doorsways in the Sand 09" - читать интересную книгу автора (Varley John)

Doorways in the Sand
Chapter 9

It is good to pause periodically and reflect on the benefits to be derived from the modern system of higher education.
I guess it can all be laid at the feet of my patron saint, President Eliot of Harvard. It was he who, back in the 1870s, felt that it would be nice to loosen the academic strait jacket a bit. He did this, and he also forgot to lock the door when he left the room. For nearly thirteen years I had granted him my gratitude once every month in that emotion-charged moment when I opened the envelope containing my allowance check. He it was who introduced the elective system, a modest tonic at the time, to a rigid course of forbidding curricula. And, as is sometimes the case with tonics, the results were contagious. And mutable. Their current incarnation, for example, permitted me to rest full-burnished, not grow dull in use, while following the winking star of knowledge. In other words, if it were not for him I might never have had time and opportunity to explore such things as the delightful and instructive habits of Ophrys speculum and Cryptostylis leptochila, whom I encountered in a botany seminar I would otherwise have been denied. Look at it that way, I owed the man my life-style and many of the agreeable things that filled it. And I am not ungrateful. As with any form of indebtedness impossible to repay, I acknowledge it freely.
And who is Ophrys? What is she? That all our swains commend her? And Cryptostylis? I am glad that you asked. In Algeria there lives a wasplike insect known as Scolia ciliata. He sleeps for a time in his burrow in a sandbank, awakens and emerges around March. The female of the species, following a fashion not peculiar to the hymenoptera, remains abed for another month. Her mate understandably grows restless, begins to cast his myopic gaze about the countryside. And lo! What should be blooming at that time in that very vicinity but the dainty orchid Ophrys speculum, with flowers that amazingly resemble the body of the female of the insect's species. The rest is quite predictable. And this is the fashion in which the orchid achieves its pollination, as he goes from flower to flower, paying his respects. Pseudocopulation is what Oakes Ames called it, the symbiotic association of two different reproductive systems. And the orchid Cryptostylis leptochila seduces the male ichneumonid wasp, Lissoplmpla semipunctata, in the same fashion, for the same purpose, with the added finesse of producing an odor like that of the female wasp. Insidious. Delightful. Morals galore, in a strict philosophical sense. This is what education is all about. Were it not for my dear, stiff Uncle Albert and President Eliot, I might have been denied such experiences and the light they constantly shed on my own condition.
For example, as I lay there, still uncertain as to where there was, a couple of the lessons of the orchid drifted through my mind, along with unclassified sounds and unsorted shapes and colors. I quickly achieved such conclusions as, Things are not always what they seem, and sometimes it doesn't matter; and One can get screwed in the damnedest ways, often involving the spinal nerves.
I was testing my environment in a tentative fashion by then.
"Ooow! Ooww!" and "Owww!" I said-for how long I am uncertain-when the environment finally responded by sticking a thermometer in my mouth and taking my pulse.
"You awake. Mister Cassidy?" a feminine-to-neuter voice inquired.
"Glab," I replied, bringing the nurse's face into focus and letting it go back out of focus again after I had gotten a good look.
"You are a very lucky man. Mister Cassidy," she said, withdrawing the thermometer. "I am going to get hold of the doctor now. He is quite anxious to talk with you. Lie still. Don't exert yourself."
In that I felt no particular urge to roll over and do pushups, it was not difficult to comply with this last. I did do the focus-trick again, though, and this time everything stayed put. Everything consisted of what appeared to be a private hospital room, with me on the bed by the wall by the window. I lay flat on my back and quickly discovered the extent to which my chest was swathed with gauze and tape. I winced at the thought of the dressings' eventual removal. The unmaimed do not have a monopoly on anticipation.
Moments later, it seemed, a husky young man in the usual white, stethoscope spilling out of his pocket, pushed a smile into the room and brought it near. He transferred a clipboard from one hand to the other and reached toward my own. I thought he was going to take my pulse, but instead he clasped my hand and shook it.
"Mister Cassidy, I'm Doctor Drade," he said. "We met earlier, but you don't remember it. I operated on you. Glad to see that your handshake is that strong. You are a very lucky man."
I coughed and it hurt.
"That's good to know," I said.
He raised the clipboard.
"Since your hand is in such good shape," he said, "may I have your signature on some release forms I have here?"
"Just a minute," I said. "I don't even know what's been done to me. I am not about to okay it at this point."
"Oh, it is not that sort of release," he said. "They'll get that when you are checking out. This just gives me permission to use your medical record and some photos I was fortunate enough to obtain during surgery as part of an article I want to write."
"What sort of article?" I asked.
"One involving the reason I said you are a very lucky man. You were shot in the chest, you know."
"I had sort of figured that out myself."
"Anyone else would probably be dead as a result. But not good old Fred Cassidy. Do you know why not?"
"Tell me."
"Your heart is in the wrong place."
"Oh."
"Have you actually gotten this far along in life without becoming aware of the peculiar anatomy of your circulatory system?"
"Not exactly," I said. "But then, I've never been shot m the chest before either."
"Well, your heart is a mirror image of an average, garden-variety heart. The vena cavae feed from the left and the pulmonary artery receives the blood from your left ventricle. Your pulmonary veins take the fresh blood to the right auricle, and the right ventricle pumps it through an aortic arch that swings over to the right. The right chambers of your heart consequently have the thickwalled development other people have on the left side. Now, anyone else shot in the same place you were would probably have been hit in the left ventricle, or possibly the aorta. In your case, though, the bullet went harmlessly past the inferior vena cava."
I coughed again.
"Well, relatively harmlessly," he amended. "There is still a hole, of course. I've patched it neatly, though. You should be back on your feet in no time."
"Great."
"Now, about the releases .. ."
"Yeah. Okay. Anything for science and progress and all that."
While I was signing the papers and wondering about the angle of the bullet, I asked him, "What were the circumstances involved in my being brought here?"
"You were brought to the emergency room by the police," he said. "They did not inform us as to the nature of the, uh, situation that led to the shootings."
"Shootings? How many of us were there?"
"Well, seven altogether. I am not really supposed to discuss other cases, you know."
I paused in mid-signature.
"Hal Sidmore is my best friend," I said, raising the pen and glancing significantly at the forms, "and his wife's name is Mary."
"They were not seriously injured," he said quickly. "Mister Sidmore has a broken arm and his wife has a few scratches. That is the extent of it. In fact, he has been waiting to see you."
"I want to see him," I said. "I feel up to it."
"I'll send him in shortly."
"Very good."
I finished signing and returned his pen and papers.
"Could I be raised a bit?" I asked.
"I don't see why not."
He adjusted the bed.