Norton, Andre - Anthology (24 page)

 
          
 
Bob looked at the recumbent Slawson again.
"Roll over, please," he asked. From scalp to toes, front and back the
crewman was blue, definitely and unequivocally blue. His hair and nails weren't
colored; his pupils looked black, but all the rest was blue, blue,
blue
.

 
          
 
"Guess it doesn't make any difference,
Jack. Snatch a piece of hide from wherever your little fiendish heart
desires."

 
          
 
"O.K.—we'll take it off the abdomen, then."
Moving with the rapid dexterity which comes from long practice,
Livingston
soon had an area of the skin anaesthetized,
a section of the skin snipped out, the wound closed and the specimen handed to
a technician. He turned from the table and bumped into Mandel, who had quietly
wandered in to see what was going on.

 
          
 
"What have we here?" he asked.

 
          
 
"Your figure it out, chum," the
surgeon replied. "
Let' s
see what a hot-shot
diagnostician you can be."

 
          
 
"Hm-m-m, the
differential diagnosis of a blue skin.
Let me think." As he looked
at Slawson, who was enjoying all this attention, he whistled softly between his
teeth.

 
          
 
Bob pricked up his ears at the tune.
"What's that you're whistling, Irv?"

 
          
 
The psychiatrist smiled. "That's an old,
old song—one popular in the twentieth century. It was called 'Am I Blue.'
" He
looked at Slawson again and said, "Well,
there are several things we'd have to consider here. There's the possibility of
methemoglobinemia or sulfhemoglobinemia. It might be just a cyanosis, but he
wouldn't be as comfortable as he is, if that were the case. And outside of
that, the pixies might have given him some Trypan blue intravenously."

 
          
 
By this time Kelly had completed his duties
with the ship and was lounging in the doorway of the lab. He shook his head.
"That jargon you grave-robbers talk beats me. And what, if my ignorance
isn't hanging out, could Trypan blue be?"

 
          
 
"Trypan blue?
That's one of the so-called vital dyes, which used to be used in research. You
could inject it intravenously or intraperitoneal^ into a rat, and he'd turn a
beautiful blue. It's not effective by mouth, though, so Slawson couldn't have
drunk it. You're sure, Slawson, that you didn't turn blue just to annoy us
doctors?"

 
          
 
Slawson grinned back at the little psychiatrist.
"No, sir!"

           
 
Thomas had been listening to this little
by-play. "We don't have any Trypan blue aboard, anyway. The closest thing
we have to it is methylene blue—and that stains only one of the fluids."

 
          
 
Schultz sighed. "How well I know that. I
took some once in my first year in medical school."

 
          
 
His comment was interrupted by a thump and
crash. They turned around to see Slawson lying on the floor. He had apparently
tried to sit up on the edge of the table and had fallen over in a dead faint.

 
          
 
Bob reached him first. His practiced fingers
found the radial pulse. "Wow! His heart is going better than one forty!
We'd better get some oxygen into him immediately."

 
          
 
In less time than it takes to tell it, Slawson
was in bed in the sick bay, being given oxygen through a mask.

 
          
 
Bob checked the patient's pulse again.
"It's coming down a little now. He must have had a terrific anoxemia; we
couldn't see it because of his color. I wish that he had complained a little
more—but all he said was that he was a little short of breath." He turned
from the bed to speak to the man on duty. "Keep a close eye on him, and if
there's any change, call me immediately. If you can't reach me, call Dr.
Schultz."

 
          
 
Bob made his way back to the laboratory,
deeply immersed in his thoughts. What to do about Slawson? Was it necessary to
return to all the precautions taken when they first landed? W T as he going to
get the same disease? Why hadn't the others turned blue? And what would the
outcome be? His disciplined mind abruptly cut off these unproductive thoughts.
He had a job to do; he didn't know what his results would be, but he could at
least do something.

 
          
 
He entered the lab; Thomas and his assistants
were still busy with the various specimens.

 
          
 
"Has he been cross-matched for
transfusion?" Bob asked.

           
 
The pathologist pointed to a 500 cc. flask of
blood standing in a pan of warm water. "That's compatible, if you want to
use it," he answered.

 
          
 
"Guess we'd better," Edwards mused.
"His blood certainly isn't carrying enough oxygen; maybe this will help.
Give it to him as soon as you can, will you? Mr. Kelly," he said— the navy
man entered silently, carrying a sheet of paper— "what's this?"

 
          
 
"We got our answer from Earth. You'll
love it."

 
          
 
Tom took the message.

 
          
 
buipsh
. 0820451735.
mercy
minotaur congrats solving problem expone.
fring
expthree blastf 0820451700 due minotaur 11xx45xxxx
weldone stark combuipsh

 
          
 
Edwards gave an exaggerated shudder and handed
the message back to Kelly. "The way you navy boys can louse up the
language. Translate it, please—I'm afraid I understand what it means."

 
          
 
"O.K. stupe
. '
Bureau
of Interplanetary Ships; August 20, 2245; message sent at 1735 to Ship Mercy on
Planet Minotaur. Congratulations on solving the problem of Expedition I. For
your information and guidance Expedition III blasted off today at 1700 and is
due on Minotaur the latter part of November—no specified time. Well done, our
good and faithful servants.'
Signed by Bottle Beak Stark,
Commander of the Bureau of Interplanetary Ships."

 
          
 
"That dumb jerk!" said Schultz.
"Does he think that this planet is safe just because we've solved one
problem? Can't he realize what an unnecessary risk those guys are taking?"
He ignored the fact that he was in much greater danger than those he was
worrying about; after all, exposure to exotic disease was in line of duty for
him. "Bob, shouldn't we radio Stark to call them back?"

 
          
 
Bob turned to Kelly. "We can't do that,
can we?"

           
 
"You're right," he answered.
"They'd be way outside the Heaviside layer by now, and they couldn't
either receive or transmit unless the rockets were shut off.
Too
much ionization from the blast.
We'll just have to wait until they hit
atmosphere here and warn them off."

 
          
 
"No, by God," said Bob grimly,
"we'll just have to get this mess cleaned up before they get here—and hope
that we don't run into any more in the meantime. How're we doing, Davey? Have
you found out what causes blue boys?"

 
          
 
"I think we're on the track,"
replied Thomas. "The oxygen-combining power is way down, though not
totally absent. There are definite changes in the absorption spectrum of the
hemoglobin. There is the typical pattern of methemo-globin plus a band near
line F. I'd say . . . now, mind you, this is only a guess . . . that Slawson had
absorbed a blue chromogen with an unstable radical, which splits off to cause
methemoglobinemia."

 
          
 
"Wow," said Tom. "And you docs
were giving the navy hell for talking technicalese. How about
you translating
now?"

 
          
 
"Dr. Schultz—will you teach the kindergarten
while I look through the spectroscope?" requested Bob, in his most formal
manner.

 
          
 
"Gladly, my dear Dr. Edwards,"
replied Schultz, equally formally. "Now pay attention, you nauseating lump
of ignorance. Hemoglobin is a complex combination of iron and protein, which
acts as the oxygen carrier of the blood. In the presence of oxygen it absorbs
it to form oxyhemoglobin; in the absence of oxygen it gives up the oxygen to
form reduced hemoglobin. The oxygen attaches or detaches itself easily. Is that
clear so far?"

 
          
 
Kelly inclined his head reverently. "Your
words of wisdom are a blessing to my ears."

           
 
"I'm glad you appreciate me. To continue:
certain chemicals, including the nitrites, acetanilid and nitrobenzene, cause
the formation of a stable hemoglobin compound called methemoglobin. When this
happens, the blood no longer can carry oxygen."

 
          
 
"So that's it," said Tom. "In
other words, the guy is actually smothering, even though he can still
breathe."

 
          
 
"A most astute observation, my dear Kelly,"
said Schultz, condescendingly. "To continue; methemoglobin makes the blood
turn a brownish-red. The patient himself gets a dusky blue look, due to the
lack of oxygen. And then when you get the further addition of another color,
which Death-House Davey has not yet identified, then you
get
a lovely color like Slawson did."

 
          
 
Tom shook his head. "Thank you, no. I'll
stick to the same old flesh color—it sort of runs in the Kelly family.
Seriously, Schultzie, what about Slawson's chances? Is this going to be—serious?"
You could see that Kelly meant, but didn't have the nerve to say, "
fatal
."

 
          
 
Schultz shrugged. "No one can say, Tommy.
We're going to do our best to see that it isn't, of course. But we'll just have
to wait and see."

 
          
 
Edwards interrupted. "Tom, would you send
one of the crewmen out to get some of those flowers that Slawson was sniffing
on?"

 
          
 
"O.K., Bob. Should he wear a spacesuit or
can he go out raw?"

 
          
 
"I imagine if he just wore a respirator
and put the flowers in a tightly closed container, he'd be all right. Isn't
that what you'd say, Thomas?" he appealed to the pathologist, who nodded
his assent.

 
          
 
While Kelly left on this errand, Tom turned
again to
Livingston
. "Jack, would you see that he gets
that blood?

           
 
And observe him closely to see how he
responds. Better get another blood specimen before you pull the needle out. And
now, Davey, let's see what we can do to identify this color."

 
          
 
Schultz and Mandel struck up one of those
desultory medical conversations—a mixture of anecdotes about interesting cases,
statements of opinion and defense of those opinions. Thomas and Edwards worked
diligently, gold-berging a filtration apparatus for separation of the color
from the blood. They were interrupted, after a while, by the return of the crew
member who had been sent out for the flowers.

 
          
 
"Well, did you get them?" asked Bob.

 
          
 
"Sir, I went out, but I didn't think I
ought to try to get them just then. I wasn't sure about those animals."