Free Clans of the Alphane Moon by Philip K. Dick

Chuck left the slime mold off, got rid of Dan Mageboom, hailed a jet cab and accompanied Joan Trieste back to her own conapt.
    As the two of them rode together in the rear of the cab Joan said, “I’m glad to get out of Lord Running Clam’s vicinity; it’s a pain in the neck, having him read your mind all the time. But it is true that he brought us—” She broke off, cocking her head and listening intently. “There’s been an accident.” At once she gave new instructions to the cab. “I’m needed. There’s been a fatality.”
    When they reached the scene they found a jet hopper upended; during its landing, its rotor had somehow failed and it had crashed against the side of abuilding, spilling out its passengers. Under a hastily-improvised blanket composed of coats and sweaters, an elderly man lay pale and silent; the police in charge waved everyone away and Chuck realized that this was the fatality.
    At once Joan hurried over to him; Chuck accompanied her, finding himself permitted past by the police. Already an ambulance was on the scene; it whirred impatiently, eager to begin the trip to Ross Hospital.
    Bending, Joan studied the dead man. “Three minutes ago,” she said, half to herself, half to Chuck. “All right,” she said. “Just wait a minute; I’ll put him back to five minutes ago.” She examined the billfold of the dead man; one of the police had handed it to her. “Mr. Earl B. Ackers,” she murmured, and then she shut her eyes. “This will only affect Mr. Ackers,” she said to Chuck. “At least it’s only supposed to. But you can never be sure with this…” Her face became squeezed, puffed out as she concentrated. “You’d better move away,” she said to Chuck. “So you’re not affected.”
    Rising, he walked off, strolled about in the cold night air, smoking a cigarette and listening to the din from the police cars’ radios; a crowd had gathered and traffic moved sluggishly, waved on by the police.
    What a strange girl to get mixed up with, he thought. A member of a police department and a Psi as well… I wonder what she’d do if she knew what I have in mind for the Daniel Mageboom simulacrum. Probably Lord Running Clam is right; it would be catastrophic to let her know.
    Waving to him Joan said, “Come here.”
    He walked hurriedly over.
    Under the improvised blankets the elderly man wasbreathing; his chest rose and fell slightly and at his lips faint bubbles of saliva had formed.
    “He’s back in time four minutes,” Joan said. “Alive again, but after the accident. It was the best I could do.” She nodded to the hospital simulacra; at once they approached, bent over the again-living injured man. Using what appeared to be an X-ray scanning device the senior simulacrum studied the anatomy of the injured man, seeking the source of the worst damage. Then it turned to its companion; the simulacra exchanged thoughts and all at once the junior member of the team opened its metal side, brought out a cardboard carton which it quickly tore open.
    The carton contained an artificial spleen; Chuck saw, in the headlights of the police cars, the stamped information on the discarded pasteboard box. And now the simulacra, here on the spot, were beginning to operate; one administered a local anesthetic while the other, utilizing a complex surgical hand, began to cut into the dermal wall of the injured man’s abdominal cavity.
    “We can go,” Joan said to Chuck, rousing him from his fixed scrutiny of the simulacra at work. “My job’s done.” Hands in the pockets of her coat, small and slender, she walked back to their jet cab, entered and seated herself to wait for him. She looked tired.
    As they drove away from the accident Chuck said, “That’s the first time I’ve seen medical simulacra in action.” It had been impressive; it made him even more aware of the enormous capabilities built into the artificial pseudo-men that General Dynamics had developed and constructed. Of course