Free The Bleeding Man by Craig Strete Page A

a thorough one." She eyed
him sharply.
    "Yes, quite
thorough," Dr. Santell replied, the polite edge in his voice wearing thin.
    He turned away
from Miss Dow, gazed in at the bleeding man. His words were clipped, impartial. "He is
approximately twenty-three years old and has been as he is now since birth."
    "Incredible!" said
Miss Dow, fascinated in spite of herself. "All this is documented?"
    "Completely. There
is no possibility of fakery. Nor point either, for that matter."
    "Just as you say,"
echoed Miss Dow. "What have you done to try to cure it? Is it some form of stigmata?"
    Dr. Santell shook
his head. "If this is stigmata, it is the most extreme case this world will ever see. Besides, it
is inconceivable that a psychosomatic illness could cause such a drastic biological
malfunction."
    "But surely some
sort of surgery—?" began Miss Dow. "Some sort of chemical therapy would—"
    Dr. Santell shook
his head emphatically. "We've tried them all in the seven years he's been here. Psycho-chemistry,
primal reconditioning, biofeedback—tried singly and together; none have had any effect. He's a
biological impossibility."
    "What is his rate
of bleeding?" she asked.
    "It varies," said
Dr. Santell. "Somewhere between two and three pints an hour."
    "But it's not
possible!" exclaimed Miss Dow. "No one
    can—
    "He can and does,"
interrupted Dr. Santell. "He doesn't do anything normally. I can give you ten rea­sons why he
should be dead. Don't ask me why he isnt.
    Miss Dow turned
her head around and stared at the silent figure standing in the center of the room. The bleeding
man had not moved. The blood flowed evenly from the chest wound, gathering in a coagulating pool
at his feet.
    "I've had enough."
She turned away from the win­dow. "Show me to my office. I'm ready to read that report
now."
     
    Two hours later,
the last page of Dr. Santell's report slipped from nerveless fingers. The bleeding man lay
outside the parameters of human biology. By all rights he should have been dead; indeed, could
never have lived. Her hands were a little unsteady as she punched in Dr. Santell's office on the
videophone. His face ap­peared on the screen—and it was flushed.
    "Report to me
immediately," Miss Dow snapped.
    "I doubt it,
sweetheart," said Dr. Santell, grinning. "I'm off the case, remember?" He drank something out of
a dark tumbler.
    "You're drinking!"
snapped Miss Dow.
    "Now that you
mention it," admitted Dr. Santell agreeably. He gave her a lopsided grin. "Perhaps you would care
to join me?"
    "You are a
disgusting, undisciplined lout. And I should like to remind you that you are still responsible to
me. You may be discharged from this case in your professional. capacity, but your standing orders
are to cooperate with me in any way possible."
    "So I'm
cooperating," muttered Dr. Santell. "I'll stay out of your way, you stay out of mine."
    "I won't tolerate
this!" she raged. "Do you realize to whom you are talking?"
    Dr. Santell
thought that over slowly. His face tight­ened. He did realize who she was. It sobered him a
little. He took another drink from the tumbler to com­pensate.
    "Are you sober
enough to answer a few questions?"
    He thought that
over for a while too. "I'm drunk enough to answer any questions you have. I don't think I could
answer them sober," he said.
    "I am trying to be
understanding," said Miss Dow, a note of conciliation in her voice. "I realize it is quite
natural for you to resent me. After all, I am responsible for your termination at this
installation."
    Dr. Santell
shrugged it off. He took another drink from the tumbler.
    "We're both
professionals, Dr. Santell," reasoned Miss Dow. "We can't let emotional considerations enter into
this. There is no place for emotion here. Our goals must be—"
    "Hell! That's easy
for you to say!" growled Dr. San­tell. "You don't have any!"
    "That's quite
enough, thank you," said Miss Dow, pressing her lips together in a