ELEVEN
"First do no harm," were David's first, very loud, words to Martha's eleven o'clock class the following day. He had entered the room two minutes late with a giant smile on his face and a big bundle of syllabi under his arm. Those he had plopped on the desk of a student in the front row while still looking up at all the new faces of the class. Then he had stood back a bit, hands in pockets (blue suit today, with red trainers), and considered. Suddenly, he had burst forth with the words, "First do no harm," and then begun to pace.
"Common misconception," he said. "These words do not actually appear in the Hippocratic Oath, and there is no proof that Hippocrates ever said them. Nevertheless, it's a chuffing good philosophy, wouldn't you say?" He caught Martha's eye and winked.
A few students nodded along.
"Obviously, Hippocrates is credited with it because he's the 'father of modern medicine,' but really, it's just common sense, isn't it? You're a doctor; do what you must to help, but above all, don't make things worse." He paused. "Well, I've got news: sometimes, you will make things worse, but we are all only human."
Martha smiled at this. Aw, it's cute that he thinks he's human.
"But how do you handle it when you've made a mistake? Do you cover it, or come clean? How do you fix it, and maintain your integrity – and your licence?
"And I've got more news. Sometimes, your colleagues will make things worse! And that's bad, because what do you do then? How do you intervene? What are the proper channels? Is it your duty to do anything? Sometimes nurses and orderlies and counsellors working under you will make things worse, and you are legally responsible. What then? Sometimes patients make things worse for themselves. Do you strap them down and torture them until they bow to your will? What's your moral obligation? What are the contstraints of the law?
He let those questions stew a bit, and eyed the class as he continued to pace.
"Well, all of those questions can and will be answered in this class," he told them. He took a deep breath and said loudly, "This is Hippocratic Theory, section two. If you're in the wrong class, now would be a good time to own up to your mistake and stop making things worse."
Martha knew that was a joke, but no one laughed. She also knew that David didn't really expect anyone to.
"We study what we call 'Hippocratic Theory' partly because Hippocrates was the first doctor ever to dismiss daemons and evil forces as the cause of disease. Thank heaven for him, eh? Without him, you might be sitting in Exorcism School right now."
That got a laugh.
"But you're not, because Hippocrates separated the discipline of medicine from religion. He didn't hold with the idea that disease was a punishment from the gods, but rather the result of a combination of environmental and internal factors – fancy that. Now, he wasn't perfect, he did get a few things wrong, and Greek medicine split into two schools of thought. And truth be told, modern medicine has much more to do with the other... but Hippocrates must be credited with this as well. Without him... well, you know."
The class continued with a much more in-depth lecture on Hippocrates himself. David was, not surprisingly, a veritable font of information. He had details that made her wonder if he was perhaps drawing on the Doctor's memory of meeting Hippocrates! She supposed it was more than possible. He took such great care in dispensing details in rapidfire fashion, that he wasn't anywhere near finished when twelve-thirty hit, and someone reminded him to dismiss the class.
Once again, the room emptied around her and she found herself alone in a spacious room with a Scottish man in a suit.
"Well, that went well," he said, leaning against a desk.
"Yes," she said. "Very informative. Very informative."
He smiled. "All right, sometimes I get carried away. I'll rely upon you to stop me when I do that in future. You are my assistant now, and the more I think on that, the more I think it's a good idea. Because sometimes I need someone."
She smiled back. "You can count on me."
"Right then," he said, clapping his hands. "Let's go to my office, shall we?"
As they walked, she asked, "Erm, how did you know that Hippocrates was allergic to olives?"
David considered for a long moment. "Well, it must have been in a journal of his or something."
"Mm, olive allergy, identified in antiquity. Interesting," she said. "And how did you know that he had hands that were smaller than average?"
He stopped walking and looked at her. "D'you know, I have no idea. I guess I made it up..." Now he was staring off into space, wondering. She wondered if he had the 21st century professor's version of The Journal of Impossible Things where he jotted down all of the insane things that popped into his head when he remembered being a Time Lord.
She let him stand there for as long as he needed. She wanted him to access those memories. She wanted, needed him to wonder how and why he knew the things he knew.
Eventually, he began walking again. They made small talk about the weather as he led her up four flights of stairs and across a flyover into a very hot building. When he opened a door at last, to her relief, they were flooded by a blast of air conditioning. And she was startled at the sight of her neighbour, the red-headed Catherine sitting at a desk.
"Hi!" Martha said to her. "What are you doing up here? I thought you worked down in admissions."
"I did," Catherine told her. "I put in for a transfer over a year ago, and finally got it last week. Martha, is it?"
"Yeah," Martha said, shaking her hand.
"You two know each other?" David asked.
"Next door neighbours," Catherine told him.
"Brilliant," David commented. "You'll get along well then. Have you got anything for me?"
"Yes," Catherine said, handing him a small piece of yellow paper. "Dr. Finbury called back about an hour ago."
"Oh, yes!" David exclaimed. "Is he going to do it?"
"He says he will, but he's asked to remain anonymous."
"Oh, Catherine, you are my hero," he said, coming around the desk to kiss the top of her head. One arm around her, he said, "Martha, that shall be our first order of business. Dr. Finbury was on the research team in East Kent that developed the Augmenter along with Simm. He's agreed to be interviewed as part of our research."
"Great, what do you need from me?"
"Well, step into my office," he said. He gestured toward a door and Martha went through it. She looked about with utter wonder and shock. Oh my God. Police badges lined up on the walls from different eras. Long-outdated hats from London bobbies. Billy clubs in various states of disrepair, even cheap, plasticky bobble-headed dolls in police gear. Shelves and framed memorabilia covered three walls.
"What is all this?" she asked.
"Oh," he said, smiling embarrassedly. "I collect police memorabilia – it's a little obsession of mine."
"Er, was your father a policeman or something?"
"No, no," David told her, looking around with seeming wonder himself. "I never knew my father. And I don't know why I became fascinated with police things... I suppose it's like people who somehow get infatuated with minature angels or painted eggs."
"Do you have more at home?" she asked.
"No, this is the entire collection," he said. "I keep it all in one place – I'm rather a completist, even though I never feel like it's complete. It really is an obsession, a lust, even. It's like when people collect comics and they keep hoping for that one, that limited edition from the first run of Superman, or the one which was banned and burned during the Blitz, and so only five copies remain in the whole world... I'm waiting for the crown jewel of my collection to fall into my lap."
Already knowing the answer, she asked, "And what do you suppose the crown jewel of a police memorabilia collection could be?"
"I don't know," he mused. "I'll know it when I see it. Meantime, I just keep searching the rummage sales, going to police auctions and antique shops, picking up things along the way to tide me over until I find what I'm looking for."
"And what will you do when you have it?"
He looked at her and smiled. "Never thought that far ahead. I won't know what to do with my week-ends then."
This made her very sad. Something is cloying at him, and he's trying to discover who he is.
"Anyway," he said, sitting down at the desk. The large bureau was in complete disarray, though Martha had no doubt that he knew exactly where everything was. Sure enough, he reached into a jumbled pile of papers and came out with a yellow sheet torn from a legal pad. He handed it to Martha. A set of questions was written on it, pertaining to Professor Simm's conduct while he was at East Kent. There were no questions about the apparatus itself or about the man's beliefs regarding lymphocyte augmentation, only about Simm as a researcher and colleague. He also handed her the telephone message that Catherine had just given him. "I'd like to begin our work by assessing Simm's methods and finding out what his colleagues involved in the project thought of him. I'd hate to attack the work itself before I know for sure that I'm not the only one who thinks he's a nutter."
"Fair enough," she said. "And you'd like me to call."
"Yes," he said. "Just stick to these questions as much as you can. Can you do shorthand?"
"No," she responded. "But I can type pretty fast. I'll just sit at my computer and take a rough dictation."
"Excellent plan. Do you think you can have this done before the week-end?"
"Absolutely," she promised. "I'll have some answers for you before you leave the university on Friday afternoon."
A knock came at the door. David said, "Enter!"
It was Catherine. "Er, Martha, there's someone here to see you."
"Really?" David said. "Okay." He stood and followed Martha out to the main office area.
John stood near Catherine's desk, waiting.
"John!" Martha said cheerfully. "Thanks for coming up."
"No problemmo," he answered.
"I just thought you two should meet," Martha explained awkwardly. "John, this is David, the professor I'll be working with on... a research project. David, John is someone who is seeing me through my, er, transition."
Each with a narrrowed eye turned on the other, John and David shook hands. Martha was certain she saw a spark of recognition there, if not in John then in at the very least, in the deep recesses of David's mind. The same part of him that made him obsessively collect police memorabilia made him think he'd seen John somewhere before.
"Nice to meet you," David said. Of Martha, he asked, "What sort of transition?"
Oh shit, I forgot to tell him about the coma.
"What sort of research?" John asked.
She put one hand on each man's shoulder, and suggested, "Why don't we all go to lunch?"