"James Tiptree Jr. - Yanqui Doodle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

He started to panic. It seemed to him that once he was shut in here they would just forget him, let him
starve and die, immobilized in the heavy cast.

"Where's a doctor? Would you tell them I need a doctor? I have ulcers, see," he added idiotically to
their backs as they went out. The door closed.

At that he dragged himself up and by tremendous effort managed to get one leg over the guard-rails.
Then he saw that the reason the cast was so immovable was that somebody had strapped it to the
bed-rails, top and bottom. Must have been done when he dozed off. By straining to his limit he got the
top buckle undone, but no way could he reach his ankle. Panting, he lay back. His hands were shaking
like leaves in a wind.

"I'm not functioning," he thought. God how he needed an M. Was it possible that only ten days ago
he had been a competent combatant, leaping up mountainsides?

He looked around. The room contained a straight chair, a small set of drawers on wheels, and a
lidless toilet. No means of calling for help.

That gave him an idea. Legitimate need.

He called tentatively, "Nurse!" No response, nothing. There was nobody out there. He raised his
voice as loud as he could. "Nurse! Nurse! Nurse! Help!"

Almost instantly there were footsteps and the door opened. Miss Plastic.

"Nurse, I have to go to the can. Why isn't this cast off? You said I'd walk today. Where's the doctor?
Does he know about my ulcer?"
 She stared at him unsmiling. "We don't holler like that, soldier. It upsets other patients. You have to
think of the others here."

"Well, how can I get help?"

"Someone looks in every fifteen minutes, around the clock. You can tell them what you need."

They went through the bedpan routine; she restrapped the buckle he'd opened and departed.

The morning dragged on. As she'd said, every quarter-hour the door opened and a face looked in.
Often it was the dark-haired nurse, but he didn't bother her except to ask once if the cast would really be
removed. "Yes. Soon, now. Doctor is making rounds."

The invisible insects had quieted down to where he could forget them, but in their place came a
growing horde of aches and discomforts, everywhere. Bruises he dimly remembered from combat time
hurt. Was all this what the Ms had been hiding from him? He groaned, trying to get comfortable. Did they
even have a doctor in this crazy place?

At noon came the doctor, and with him Miss Plastic, carrying his lunch. She put the tray down on the
bureau, out of his reach. The doctor was old, about Don's father's age. He was a grunter. He tackled the
cast with an electric saw. Miss Plastic kept having to hand him things; it did Don good to see her obeying
orders, sweet as peaches.