The Bleeding Man (11 page)

"Dr.
Santell!"

He turned to look
at her.

"I'm really not
hard to get along with," said Miss Dow. "You have the reputation of being a brilliant scientist.
I've handled your type before. I am willing to overlook a small measure of eccentricity. But I
draw the line at treason."

His expression
remained blank.

"It's only natural
that you're defensive about your patient after seven years," she soothed. "You have personalized
him, lost your objectivity. But you must know as well as I do that the bleeding man is a
brain­less vegetable, hopelessly retarded since birth. You can see that, surely?"

Dr. Santell stared
wordlessly.

"It would be a lot
easier for me," she continued, "if I had your cooperation on this thing. You've had seven years'
experience on this project and you could help us smooth over any rough spots we might encounter.
This isn't exactly a normal case. It will require special pro­cedures. Procedures that your
cooperation will make possible." She smiled at him. "My report could be a very positive one. It
depends on you."

Dr. Santell forced
himself to smile. "Believe me," he said, "I shall cooperate in any way I can. I apologize for my
behavior."

Miss Dow nodded.
"Good. Now, how much blood could, let's say, ten of his regenerations produce in a
forty-eight-hour period?"

Dr. Santell began
punching up figures on his desk calculator.

The bleeding man
continued to drink. The men studying the glass streaks on the floor had fled.

A security guard
unlocked the door and looked into the room. The bleeding man did not seem aware of the other's
presence. A call went out for Dr. Santell.

Dr. Santell,
followed by Miss Dow, arrived just in time to see the heavy door buckling outward.

"He's gone
berserk!" screamed Miss Dow as the door was battered off its hinges. The bleeding man walked
through the wreckage of the door. He advanced upon them, a crimson trail of blood behind him on
the floor. Miss Dow fled, screaming. Dr. Santell stood his ground. The bleeding man brushed him
lightly as he walked past. He looked neither to left nor right. He strode down the corridor,
moving quickly, relentlessly.

Dr. Santell ran in
front of him and tried to push him to a halt. His hands slipped, coming away blood-soaked. His
efforts to stop him were futile. Throvigh the plasti-glass corridor walls he could see the
security guards gathering around Miss Dow at the corridor exit. Dr. Santell took hold of the
bleeding man's arm and tried to drag him to a stop, but found himself being dragged instead. The
bleeding man did not even break stride.

Miss Dow stood
within a cordon of security men. Dr. Santell knew what she would order them to do even before the
bleeding man smashed through the exit door.

"Aim for his
head!" she shouted.

A burst of stunner
fire took the bleeding man full in the face. He walked several steps, then toppled.

Dr. Santell rushed
to his side and put a hand on his chest. "He's still alive," he muttered to himself.

"Good shooting,
men," congratulated Miss Dow. "A couple of you carry the body down to the lab."

"Is there very
much damage to his head?" she asked. "Is he still alive? Not that it matters. We can't risk
an­other episode like this. We might as well do the dis­section here. It'll make him easier to
handle. We'd have to ship him frozen anyway, now that we know more about his
capabilities."

The security men
carried the body away.

"He's still
alive," Dr. Santell said, pronouncing each word slowly and distinctly. "He's very much
alive."

Miss Dow had a
surgical gown on and a mask.
"
Are you sure you can handle the dissection all by yourself,
Dr. Santell? I could fly someone in to assist."

"Quite sure," said
Dr. Santell, bending over the still form on the surgery table. "I'll begin soon. You'd better
leave now."

"I'll be waiting
at the military base in Intercity for the body," said Miss Dow. She came over to the table and
stood beside him. Her voice was cold and emo­tionless, as usual. "You realize I still must report
your treasonable remarks to General Talbot."

Dr. Santell
nodded, not looking in her direction.

"However, your
behavior has shown marked improve­ment. That too will be noted in my report. Trying to stop this
creature single-handedly in the corridor like you did was a very brave if somewhat foolish thing
to do. You realize, of course, that the matter is out of my hands. General Talbot will be the one
deciding, not I. Perhaps, after a short period of retraining, you may even be reassigned. A man
of your reputation, I'm sure, will find it very easy to rejoin the fold. Only a fool—or a
traitor—bucks the system."

Dr. Santell seemed
not to be listening. He stuck a needle into the arm of the body on the dissection
table.

"What a shame a
body like that should have no mind," mused Miss Dow. "Just think of the power he must have in
order to smash through those doors like he did."

"Yes," Dr. Santell
replied tonelessly.

Miss Dow pulled
her mask off and turned to leave.

"Wait," said Dr.
Santell. "Before you go, could you hand me that box of clamps under the table here?"

She bent over and
looked under the table. "I don't see any—"

His scalpel sliced
through her right carotid artery. Her body jerked convulsively and she crashed heavily to the
floor.

"Yes," said Dr.
Santell with a strange look on his face. "It is always a shame to find a good body with a
de­fective mind."

It took him a
little over two hours to dissect her. By the time he finished, the stimulant he had injected into
him had brought the bleeding man back to conscious­ness.

As he was putting
her dismembered body into the liquid nitrogen packs for shipping, he kept his eyes on the body of
the bleeding man. The body sat up slowly and opened its eyes. The head swiveled and the eyes
regarded him. The eyes were alive with raw intelli­gence. The body slid off the table gracefully
and stood up, the wound on his chest completely healed.

"I knew," said Dr.
Santell. "I knew."

The medicine
shaker, the bone breaker. I have seen and been all these. It is nothing but trouble.

I have sat on the
good side of the fire. I have cried over young women. It is nothing but trouble.

These are the
words I heard written in his skin. He made me kill her. I had to do it. I am not sorry. I knew.
That is enough, knowing.       —Paul Santell

(
This suicide
note was found near the charred body of Dr. Santell, who, Intercity Police say, apparently soaked
himself with an inflammable liquid and then set himself afire. Dr. Paul Santell, twice recipient
of the Nobel Prize in psycho-chemistry, had been experienc­ing
.... —excerpt from
Intercity Demographic Area Telepaper.
)

The bleeding man,
cured of bleeding, walked with­out haste toward the door leading outside. He remem­bered the
taste of blood, he who no longer had need of it. He pushed the door open and stepped outside. The
sky pulled at him, but he resisted for that last little moment. His feet touched the ground. His
lungs filled with air. His eyes danced on the horizons of the world. Raising his hands into the
air, he let the sky pull him away from the earth. He took the air in his lungs and thrust it out
with a shout. Silently his lips formed words.

And then he had no
more need of air and words. His fingers curled into the hands of the sky. He disap­peared in a
cloud.

He Who No Longer
Bleeds is gone. He will return. To bleed again.