his luggage. Smith paid the driver and entered the hospital's glass-topped, marble-lined galleria. He took off his sunglasses, slid them into his pocket, and gazed around.
The galleria was so cavernousmore than two football fields in lengththat palm trees swayed in the internal breeze. The hospital was nearly brand-new, having opened just a couple of years ago amid official fanfare that it was the hospital of the future. As Smith headed toward an information desk, he noted department-store-style escalators that led up to patients' rooms on the floors above, bright arrows pointing to the operating theaters, and, infusing the air, a light scent reminiscent of Johnson's Lemon Wax.
Speaking perfect French, he asked for directions to the intensive care unit where Marty was being treated, and he took the escalator up. There was a subdued bustle as shifts changed and nurses, technicians, clerical help, and orderlies came and left. It was all done smoothly, quietly, and only the most experienced eye would have noticed the exchanges that signaled the handing off of responsibilities.
One of the theories that made this model hospital different was that services were clustered in groups, so that the specialist went to the patient, rather than the reverse. Entering patients arrived at any one of twenty-two different reception points, where they were met by personal hostesses, who guided them to their private rooms. There a computer was positioned at the foot of each bed, case notes existed in cyberspace, and, if surgery were necessary, robots often conducted parts of it. The enormous hospital even boasted swimming pools, health clubs, and cafeacute;s.
Beyond the desk that fronted the ICU, two gendarmes stood outside the door into the unit itself. Smith identified himself formally in French to the nurse as the American medical representative of Dr. Martin Zellerbach's family. "I'll need to talk to Dr. Zellerbach's lead physician."
"You wish to see Dr. Dubost, then. He's arrived for rounds and has already seen your friend this morning. I'll page him."
"Merci.
Will you take me to Dr. Zellerbach? I'll wait there."
"Bien sr. S'il vous plat?"
She offered him a distracted smile and, after one gendarme had examined his army medical identification, took him inside the heavy swinging doors.
Instantly, the hospital noises and the vigorous ambience vanished, and he was moving in a hushed world of soft footsteps, whispering doctors and nurses, and the muted lights, bells, and winking LEDs of machines that seemed to breathe loudly in the silence. In an ICU, machines owned the universe, and patients belonged to them.
Smith anxiously approached Marty, who was in the third cubicle on the left, lying motionless inside the raised side rails of a narrow, machine-operated bed, as helpless among the tubes and wires and monitors as a toddler held by each hand between towering adults. Smith looked down, his chest tight. Frozen in a coma, Marty's round face was waxen, but his breathing was even.
Smith touched the computer screen at the end of the bed and read Marty's chart. Marty was still in a coma. His other injuries were minor, mostly scrapes and bruises. It was the coma that was worrisome, with its potential for brain damage, sudden death, and even worsea permanent suspended state neither dead nor alive. But there were a few good signs, too, according to the cyberchart. All his autonomic responses were workinghe was breathing unaided, occasionally coughed, yawned, blinked, and showed roving eye movementswhich indicated that the lower brain stem, the vital part that controlled these activities, was still functioning.
"Dr. Smith?" A small man with gray hair and an olive complexion walked toward him. "I understand you've come from the United States." He introduced himself, and Smith saw the embroidery on the front of his long white physician's coatEdouard Dubost. He was Marty's doctor.
"Thank you for seeing me so quickly," Smith told him. "Tell me about Dr. Zellerbach's condition."
Dr. Dubost nodded. "I have good news. Our friend here seems to be doing better."
Immediately Smith felt a smile grow across his face. "What's happened? I didn't see anything on his chart from this morning."
"Yes, yes. But you see, I wasn't finished. I had to go around the corner for a moment. Now we'll talk, and I'll type at the same time." The doctor leaned over the computer. "We're fortunate with Dr. Zellerbach. He's still in a coma, as you can see, but this morning he spoke a few words and moved his arm. He was responding to stimulation."
Smith inhaled with relief. "So it's less severe than you originally thought. It's possible he'll awake