“No. You’re right. What will I need?”

What she would need, after 43 years out of date, was fer more than Mayerd on Sassinak’s ship had been able to give her. And she’d refused Mayerd’s offer of fast-tape equipment. New surgical procedures, using new equipment: that meant not only fast-tape time, but actual in-the-OR work on “slushes,” the gruesomely realistic androids used for surgical practice. New drugs, with all the attendant information on dosages, side effects, contraindications, and drug interferences. New theories of cognition that related to the coldsleep experience.

One of the neat things about her hop-skip-and-jump experiences, Lunzie realized partway through this retraining, was that it gave her an unusual overview of medical progress . . . and regress. She solved one diagnostic problem on the fourth day, pointing out that a mere 45 years ago, and two sectors away, that cluster of symptoms was called Galles Disease. It had been wiped out by a clever genetic patch, and had now reoccurred (“Probably random mutation,” said the senior investigator with a sigh. “I should have thought of that”) in an area where everyone had forgotten about it.

Differences between sectors, and between cultures within a sector, meant that what she learned might not be new in one place—or available in twenty others.

32   

Access to the best medical technology was at least as uneven as on Old Earth. Lunzie spent all her time in the fast-tape booths, or practicing procedures and taking the preliminary recertification exams. Basic and advanced life support, basic and advanced trauma first response, basic and advanced contagious disease techniques . . . her head would have spun if it could.

In her brief time “off,” she tried to catch up with current research in her area, flicking through the computerized journal abstracts.

“What we really need is another team member for a trip to Diplo.” Someone groaned, in the back of the room, and someone else shushed the groaner.

“Come on,” the speaker said, half-angrily. “It’s only a short tour, thirty days max.”

“Because that’s the medical limit,” came a mutter.

“This comes up every year,” the speaker said. “We have a contract pending; we have an obligation; whatever your personal views, the heavyworlders on Diplo have significant medical problems which are still being researched.”

“Not until you give us an allowance for G-damage.”

Lunzie thought that was the same mutterer, someone a few seats to her left and behind.

“Fay and allowances are adjusted for local conditions,” the speaker went on, staring fixedly at his notes. “TTiis year’s special topic is the effect of prolonged coldsleep on heavyworlder biochemistry, particularly the accumulation of calcium affecting cardiac function.” He paused. Lunzie wondered when that topic had been assigned. Everyone would know, from her qualifications posted in the files, that she had special knowledge relevant to the research. But it would not do to show eagerness. The speaker went on. “We’ve already got a molecular biologist, and a cardiac physiologist—“

The names came up on the main room screen, along with their most recent publications. Very impressive, Lunzie thought to herself. Both Bias, the biologist, and Tailler, the cardiac physiologist, had published lead articles in good journals.