“Oh, come on, Bandicut. We can have you back at work in two days if you just let us—”
Bandicut flailed an arm, clenching a fist in warning. He started to sit up, but a pair of strong arms grabbed him and held him down on the table. “No—nanomeds—!” he wheezed, against the pressure on his chest.
Dr. Switzer’s face came into view over him. He was a stocky man with thinning silver hair, probably in his late fifties. What the hell a man his age was doing out here on Triton, Bandicut hated to think. Probably barred from practice on all the other inhabited worlds. Switzer peered at him through his black-rimmed glasses, frowning. “Still can’t forgive and forget, eh, John?”
Bandicut grunted. “Yeh,” he managed, holding back a dozen harsher answers. “I guess that’s it.”
“Tsk, tsk.” Switzer moved away, shaking his head. “Well . . . we wouldn’t want to give you something that would cause you any psychological side effects, I suppose.”
Bandicut raised his head suspiciously. He didn’t like the sound of that. As senior medical officer on Triton, Switzer approved or disapproved everyone’s fitness-for-duty status. Medically and psychologically. “What’s that mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything, John.” Switzer turned back with an alarming-looking clamping device in his hand. “I’m just trying to save you pain, that’s all. Now we’ll have to set that bone the old-fashioned way, and it’ll take you a good four or five days to heal well enough to work. I suppose you can use the time to catch up on your reading. Jean, give him the injection, please,” Switzer said brusquely.
Bandicut swiveled his head, but the nurse had already jammed the syringe into his leg. He felt a rush of giddiness. What the hell was that? he managed to think, before the sensation swept him away like a flickering holochannel, removing him from any awareness of his surroundings.