Damon Knight - Orbit 15

Jim watched the man’s face. Did he detect any sorrow there? He could not be sure. He thought about the old man, Bill; and about Ernie.

“Ernie, how many patients have died under your care here?”

Ernie seemed to study the doctor for a few moments before answering the question. As though pondering the answer, or perhaps seeking to guess why Jim had asked.

“As of this minute, one hundred twenty-five thousand three hundred and twenty-eight. Four more are dying now.”

Jim thought about all those deaths, and about Bill, who would be one more.

“Are you sorry for the dying and the dead, Ernie?”

Again Ernie seemed to study Jim’s face before answering. “Death comes to all men, Doctor.”

“But not to you, Ernie.”

“No, not to me.”

The two men said nothing for some moments. Then Ernie said, “You seem well, Dr. Lambert, but are you having trouble with your wife? Are your hours too long?”

Jim smiled at the question. Then Ernie smiled too.

“I’m not the patient, Ernie. Not yet.” He sighed and picked up the paper on Bill.

“I suppose there is no point in doing the surgery at Bill’s age?” Jim said.

“We can’t be sure yet, but that is the estimate, yes.” The two discussed the case further. Finally Jim said, “He has no relatives, no friends?”

Ernie shook his head.

“Should he be told about his chances?”

“I think he knows, Doctor, but does not want to be told.”

“Should I see him and talk it over with him, do you think?”

“He would be frightened at first if you came, but I think it would give him courage. He is an old man and he is not afraid to die, but I think your seeing him might help.”

“And you’ll be there, of course.”

“I’ll be there with Bill until the end. We’ve talked about that. I think we are friends now.”

Jim thought about it for a time. He made an appointment to see Bill. Then he picked up the next paper on his desk.

“I’d like to talk with the person in charge of Mrs. Robert Barnes, please.”

The image of Ernie was replaced by that of a trim, beautiful woman in her early thirties, elegantly dressed and coiffed.

Two days went by. Bill got to know Ernie better in that time. They mostly talked. Exchanged stories. Ernie knew some of the men Bill had known, and they talked about those men—things they’d said or done. And Ernie knew a lot of men Bill wished he’d known. Bill listened to Ernie’s stories about those men by the hour. It was amazing how many men Ernie had met or heard about.

Bill asked Ernie if he’d traveled much, been places.

“No,” said Ernie a bit wistfully, “I’ve just worked here in the hospital. I’ve seen places, but never really been anywhere.”

So Bill didn’t ask that question any more.

Bill slept a lot, but when he awoke Ernie was always there on the screen. When they took Bill somewhere for tests Ernie would show up on a screen there, explain to him what they were doing and make sure they took good care of Bill.

Bill wondered how Ernie could be with him so much and still watch other guys too. But for some reason he never wanted to ask Ernie about it, until the day he met Bobby Winston.

Bill had been out of his room for a test, down some long halls and into a room with shiny machines. It wasn’t X rays, it was some other kind of rays. Maybe it was ultrasonics or the infrared, or some other things Ernie had explained—they all got mixed up in Bill’s head unless Ernie was explaining them.

Anyway, Bill was waiting to be taken back to his room when they wheeled in a small boy. He looked very sick, he had been crying and was obviously scared to death.

They stopped the boy’s cart next to Bill’s, and Bill could see how thin and frail the little boy looked. He could see the tag on the boy’s wrist. It said “Bobby Winston.” Bill was just beginning to wonder if Ernie could help this little boy when he heard a gruff voice from the wall behind him.

“Say, Bobby,” the voice said, “didn’t I tell you this wouldn’t hurt? Don’t you believe old Andy? Andy will be right here with you while they do the test—and he won’t let anyone hurt you. Trust old Andy, won’t you, Bobby?”

Bill could see Bobby’s face light up when he heard the voice, and Bobby rolled over so he could see the wall behind Bill. Bobby was still sniffling, but he was trying to dry his tears.

“I didn’t know they’d let you come down here, Andy,” said the little boy. “Will they really let you stay?”

“Sure they will, Bobby,” said the gruff voice. “Who’s going to stop me, hey?”

Bill wanted to see Andy, so he rolled over on his cart.

There on the wall screen was an enormous, smiling, black and white panda. It went on talking to Bobby in that gruff voice.

When he got back to his room, Bill asked Ernie about the boy and the panda. Ernie told Bill about the little Winston boy. He was very sick and everybody in the hospital had been upset when it was discovered that Bobby wouldn’t talk to any of the staff.

“But we found out he would talk to the panda,” concluded Ernie.

Bill lay in his bed looking at Ernie for a while. Then he said, “But bears can’t talk, can they, Ernie?”

“No, bears can’t talk—even pandas,” said Ernie.

Bill said, “Ernie, could you come up to my room today? Just for a minute? Just drop in for a minute—I mean, we haven’t seen each other—we . . .” His voice trailed off. “Could you, Ernie?”

“Bill, I’ve got all these other guys to watch. I can’t come,” said Ernie, smiling. Maybe a bit wistfully. Maybe just smiling calmly.

“Ernie? Are you—are you—like the panda? Is that why you can’t come up to my room?”

Ernie didn’t say anything for a moment. Bill waited.

“You mean, Bill, that the panda isn’t real, don’t you?”

Bill nodded. His eyes stung. He closed them.

“But the panda is real to Bobby, Bill. The panda is Bobby’s friend. So far it’s the only friend we’ve found for Bobby in the whole hospital.” Ernie sighed. “Bobby trusts the panda in the same way you trust me, because Bobby’s found out that the panda is on his side, that the big bear won’t let anybody hurt Bobby, that the bear is always there when Bobby needs him. Andy is a good friend. Do you see how it is, Bill?”

But Bill turned his face to the wall and would not answer.

Dr. Lambert knocked on Bill’s door and went in. Bill was sitting up in bed, looking out the window.

“I’m Dr. Lambert, Bill. I’m your doctor while you’re here.”

Bill did not turn, seemed not to hear.

“I came because I hear there’s been some trouble between you and Ernie. Is that right?”

“Ernie?” said Bill. “Who’s he? I never met him. What’s this Ernie got to do with me?”

Dr. Lambert waited. Bill said, “You got a cigarette, Doctor?”

Before Lambert could answer, the table slid noiselessly over to Bill’s bed and a drawer opened. There were cigarettes in the drawer.

“Forget it,” said Bill quickly. “I changed my mind.”

The drawer of the table slid shut.

Bill looked at the drawer awhile. He said, “He’s here, isn’t he? Even when I can’t see him.”

“You mean Ernie. Yes, Bill, he’s always here, making sure you’re all right.”

“Ernie’s the panda, too, isn’t he. The little boy’s panda.”

“In a way, yes, he is.”

Bill turned to look at the doctor. He looked old and sick and alone.

“Why didn’t he tell me that he wasn’t a real person—that he was some kind of damned machine? Why didn’t you tell me, Doc? Why’d you fool me like this? I can’t hurt anybody. I’m just a sick old man—and I’m going to—” He stopped.