Terminal Man by Michael Crichton Read Free Book Online

ORRIS WAS SITTING IN THE HOSPITAL cafeteria finishing some stale apple pie when his pagemaster went off. It produced a high electronic squeal, which persisted until he reached down to his belt and turned it off. He returned to his pie. After a few moments, the squeal came again. He swore, put down his fork, and went to the wall phone to answer his page.
    There had been a time when he regarded the little gray box clipped to his belt as a wonderful thing. He relished those moments when he would be having lunch or dinner with a girl and his pagemaster would go off, requiring him to call in. That sound demonstrated that he was a busy, responsible person involved in life-and-death matters. When the pagemaster went off, he would excuse himself abruptly and answer the call, radiating a sense of duty before pleasure. The girls loved it.
    But after several years it was no longer wonderful. The box was inhuman and implacable, and it had come to symbolize for him the fact that he was not his own man. He was perpetually on call to some higher authority, however whimsical—a nurse who wanted toconfirm a medication order at 2 a.m.; a relative who was acting up, making trouble about Mama’s postoperative treatment; a call to tell him a conference was being held when he was already there attending the damned conference.
    Now the finest moments in his life were those when he went home and put the box away for a few hours. He became unreachable and free. And he liked that very much.
    He stared across the cafeteria at the remainder of his apple pie as he dialed the switchboard. “Dr. Morris.”
    “Dr. Morris, two-four-seven-one.”
    “Thank you.” That was the extension for the seventh floor nurses’ station. He had long ago learned all the principal extensions of the University Hospital system. He dialed the floor. “Dr. Morris.”
    “Oh, yes,” a female voice said. “We have a woman with an overnight bag for patient Harold Benson. She says it’s personal things. Is it all right to give it to him?”
    “I’ll come up,” he said.
    “Thank you, Doctor.”
    He went back to his tray, picked it up, and carried it to the disposal area. As he did so, his beeper went off again. He went to answer it.
    “Dr. Morris.”
    “Dr. Morris, one-three-five-seven.”
    That was the metabolic unit. He dialed. “Dr. Morris.”
    “This is Dr. Hanley,” an unfamiliar voice said. “We wondered if you could take a look at a lady we think may have steroid psychosis. She’s a hemolytic anemic up for splenectomy.”
    “I can’t see her today,” Morris said, “and tomorrow is tight.” That, he thought, was the understatement of the year. “Have you tried Peters?”
    “No …”
    “Peters has a lot of experience with steroid mentation. Try him.”
    “All right. Thanks.”
    Morris hung up. He got onto the elevator and pressed the button for the seventh floor. His beeper went off a third time. He checked his watch; it was 6:30 and he was supposedly off-duty by now. But he answered it anyway. It was Kelso, the pediatric resident.
    “Want your ass whipped?” Kelso said.
    “Okay. What time?”
    “Say, about half an hour?”
    “If you’ve got the balls.”
    “I’ve got them. They’re in my car.”
    “See you on the court,” Morris said. Then he added, “I may be a little late.”
    “Don’t be too late,” Kelso said. “It’ll be dark soon.”
    Morris said he would hurry, and hung up.
    The seventh floor was quiet. Most of the other hospital floors were noisy, jammed with relatives and visitors at this hour, but the seventh floor was always quiet. It had a sedate, calm quality that the nurses were careful to preserve.
    The nurse at the station said, “There she is, Doctor,” and nodded to a girl sitting on a couch. Morris went over to her. She was young and very pretty in a flashy, show-business sort of way. She had long legs.
    “I’m Dr. Morris.”
    “Angela Black.” She stood up and shook hands, very formally. “I brought