The Galactic Gourmet

by James White

  "We have not seen you in the dining hall recently," it said be­fore he could speak. "You could be overdoing the low profile in­struction, Gurronsevas, because a complete absence will often at­tract more attention than a normal presence. In any case, most other species, myself included, have difficulty telling Tralthans apart without reading their IDs. I am on my way to the dining hall now. Would you like to join me?"

  "My room," said Gurronsevas, embarrassment making him ir­ritable, "is far from your normal path between the Psychology De­partment and the dining hall."

  "True," said Lioren. "Perhaps I was making another call on this level, or I could be telling a therapeutic untruth. Which it is you will never know."

  Without knowing why, Gurronsevas said, "All right, I'll come."

  If more than the usual number of entities were watching him, he did not know about it because he kept his four eyes directed on Lioren, Braithwaite, Cha Thrat and his platter, and none of the con­versations at nearby tables were about him. When he joined the oth­ers Gurronsevas wondered aloud how they had been able to obtain O'Mara's permission to leave their office unattended, and Braith­waite told him that it was an unwritten law of the hospital that no­body became mentally disturbed while the Psychology Department was out to lunch. Gurronsevas suspected that to be another thera­peutic untruth, and decided that they were trying to humor him.

  But very quickly the conversation became serious.

  "We hear that you haven't been spending much time at the food synthesizers these past few days," said Lieutenant Braithwaite suddenly, "and there have been no recent menu changes. Was this by choice or is your work being hampered by others? O'Mara wants to know."

  Surrounded as he was by three psychologists, he decided that it would be pointless not to tell the truth.

  "Both," said Gurronsevas. "I had an aversion to meeting peo­ple, and my work was hampered, not by others but by a shortage of necessary supplies. I had intended seeking Skempton's assis­tance in providing them, because they are not on the normal list of provisions and may be expensive to bring here, but I am forbidden to speak to the Colonel."

  "I see," said Braithwaite. After a moment's thought it went on, "In this medical madhouse we order up so much weird and won­derful stuff, equipment and medication and such, that procurement isn't normally a problem for any head of department...Are you on friendly terms with Thornnastor."

  "Thornnastor has always behaved politely towards me," said Gurronsevas. "But I fail to see the relevance of the Diagnostician-in-Charge of Pathology in this matter."

  "Of course you don't," said Lioren, "at least not yet. But if you were to explain your difficulty to Thornnastor, it should be possi­ble to circumvent the Colonel. Skempton's principal assistant is the Chief of Procurement, Creon-Emesh. It and Thornnastor have been close friends for many years, so much so that it would be dif­ficult for either to refuse a favor asked by the other."

  "I understand," said Gurronsevas. "When two members of a species engage in such a long-term emotional and sexual relation­ship, they think and feel as one..."

  He broke off because Braithwaite and Cha Thrat seemed to be having respiration difficulties. Before he could express his concern, Lioren said, "They have been playing bominyat together, many say to planetary championship level, at every opportunity for more than a decade. Creon-Emesh is a Nidian, so the relationship is not, therefore, physical."

  "My deepest apologies to both entities," said Gurronsevas in confusion. "But if Creon-Emesh is the Colonel's assistant, would it not tell—"

  "It would not," said Braithwaite firmly. "It may be that I am divulging privileged information from Creon-Emesh's psych file..."

  "I would say there was no doubt about it," said Lioren.

  "...when I tell you that the Chief of Procurement is an intel­ligent, able and ambitious entity who does not believe in bother­ing its superior with trifles, or even serious problems which it is ca­pable of solving itself. In short, it is one of those rare and valued assistants who is constantly trying to make its superior redundant. It has respect but no strong affection for Skempton, and it will be aware of the Colonel's present antipathy towards you, so if you were to make the request in confidence and word it so that Creon-Emesh was faced with a challenge in the bominyat tradition..."

  "With a mind as devious as that," said Cha Thrat, "the Lieu­tenant should play bominyat."

  "...you might get your supplies," Braithwaite continued, ig­noring the interruption, "without the Colonel knowing anything about it. Or would you prefer me to make the suggestion to Creon-Emesh?"

  "No," said Gurronsevas. "In my time I, too, have played bominyat, but only at inter-city level, so Creon-Emesh and I will have that in common. I am most grateful, both for the suggestion and your offer of help, but I would prefer to do it myself."

  "If you are a bominyatti, too," said Braithwaite, raising a hand to acknowledge and dismiss his thanks, "you have nothing to worry about. But enough of these games of devious diplomacy and cal­culated manipulation of obligations. What menu surprises are you planning for us?"

  The off-duty accommodation of Creon-Emesh was spacious, for a Nidian, but tiny and claustrophobic so far as the majority of other species were concerned. The ceiling was so low that, even with his knee-joints bent to maximum flexion and his arms tightly folded, Gurronsevas's head scraped the ceiling and his body threatened to dislodge the pieces of decorative vegetation hanging from the walls or demolish the ridiculously fragile furniture. An area on one side of the room had been cleared and the ceiling raised for the conve­nience of a more massive visitor, Thornnastor presumably, and he moved to it with relief.

  "You are not here just to play bominyat," said Creon-Emesh before Gurronsevas could speak, "so that can wait. Thorny keeps telling me that my place resembles a Tralthan rodent's nest, so if you say anything polite about it I would not believe you. Please do not waste playing time. What is it exactly that you want of me?"

  Gurronsevas tried not to take offense. The Nidians as a species, it was said by their many critics, were not particularly strong or in­telligent or in possession of effective natural weapons that had en­abled them to become dominant on their home planet; they had got there purely through their sheer, bad-tempered impatience to evolve. But he felt it necessary to display a modicum of good manners.

  "Nevertheless," he said, "I am obliged to you for agreeing to this meeting, especially as it is taking place when you are supposed to be off-duty."

  "Off-duty, on-duty, hah!" said the Nidian impatiently, nod­ding towards a display screen which was showing columns of fig­ures rather than one of the entertainment channels. "It is the curse of the truly dedicated not to know the difference. But if what I hear about you is true, you have the same problem. What exactly is it that you want from me?"

  "Information on ordering procedures, assistance and your discretion," said Gurronsevas. The other's bluntness of speech seemed to be contagious.

  "Explain," said Creon-Emesh.

  But not too contagious, Gurronsevas thought. This was a situ­ation which would need more than a few words of explanation. He said, "When I came to Sector General I carried few personal effects because, as you well know, Tralthans do not wear clothing and scorn the use of body ornaments. Instead I brought with me a quantity of herbs, spices and condiments native to Traltha, Earth, Nidia and the other worlds who practice the cooking of food with imagination rather than as a means of eliminating any harmful bacteria it might contain. Material from this personal store has been used to modify the standard meals of a few test subjects, and now I wish to incorporate them, as well as a number of other im­provements I have planned, in the main dining hall menus. When I am forced to leave the hospital I would like to be remembered for something other than the accident in Bay Twelve, or wrecking the Chalder ward or—"

  "Yes, yes, I sympathize," Creon-Emesh broke in. "But what do you want me to do?"

  "The material is used in very small quantities so far as in
di­vidual meals are concerned," Gurronsevas went on, "but if they are to be made available to everyone, which was my intention from the beginning, the small supply brought with me from Nidia will be ex­hausted within a week."

  "Then order what you need," said Creon-Emesh. "You have a budget."

  "Yes, a generous one," said Gurronsevas unhappily, "but re­grettably insufficient. That is why I wanted to speak to Colonel Skempton, to have it increased. The supplies I need originate on a score of different planets, and the transportation costs alone would greatly exceed it."

  Creon-Emesh gave a sudden, sharp bark and said, "You are too innocent for your own good, Gurronsevas, and plainly you have been too busy to discuss this problem with anyone in Procure­ment. But your only concern lies with the preparation of food rather than how it reaches us. Had you not become a foul stench in Skempton's nose, the Colonel would have educated you in our ways, as I am about to do. So listen carefully.

  "You already know," it went on quickly, "that the Monitor Corps is responsible for the supply and maintenance of Sector Gen­eral. For this it uses a very small part of the Federation's overall bud­get that finances the service as a whole. Supply includes providing us with species-specialized surgical instruments and equipment, medication, other-species atmospheres and, of course, food mass to top-up the synthesizer reservoirs as well as the Hudlar and Illensan food tanks which are more convenient to import. The Mon­itors also bring us patients who are beyond the clinical capabilities of the Federation planetary hospitals and are referred here for treat­ment, or the casualties of space accidents, or newly-discovered life-forms who are damaged or diseased or otherwise in need of med­ical care. Because the Corps vessels are not designed specifically for the large-scale transport of freight, they charter ships like Trivennleth to do the work. It is therefore possible, with a little creative ac­counting within your budget allowance, to purchase supplies from any part of the explored Galaxy and have the transport charges set against the Corps' overall supply and maintenance budget, which is much too large for them to worry about what you are doing. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

  It was as if the artificial gravity grids in the floor had failed and he was about to float into the air, so great was the weight that had been lifted from him. But before Gurronsevas could find the words to express his understanding and his gratitude, Creon-Emesh spoke again.

  "Naturally, the maintenance aspect does not concern you," it said, and barked softly, "although recently you have been the cause of quite a lot of structural repairs being carried out. You have a list of your requirements?"

  "Thank you, yes," Gurronsevas stammered. "The principal items have been committed to memory. But will what you are doing for me cause you to smell as badly to Skempton as I do, or other­wise affect your chances of career advancement? And are you sure all this can be hidden from the Colonel?"

  "To answer you in order," said Creon-Emesh impatiently, "no, no and no. We cannot hide anything from the Colonel, the sys­tem we use precludes it. Skempton will be able to see everything we do but, as it has been said many times, life is too short to waste time checking every requisition order which, on average, number sev­eral thousand per day. He leaves that to trusted but obviously un­trustworthy subordinates like myself. So long as the identification codes, routing instructions and quantities ordered are not abnor­mal they will be accepted without question. If any of the items are likely to arouse Supply Department's suspicions, I'll tell you to think again.

  "And remember," it went on, "ordering in quantity is prefer­able to periodic reordering of small amounts, which would increase the chances of what you are doing being detected. What are your principal needs?"

  He tried to thank it again, but the other seemed to be inter­ested only in his needs which, because of the little Nidian's con­tinued lack of objection, were becoming more ambitious and dar­ing by the moment. But Gurronsevas's enthusiasm was checked when Creon-Emesh barked suddenly and held up both of its tiny hands.

  "No," it said firmly. "You cannot have morning-gathered Orligian crelgi leaves. Gurronsevas, be reasonable."

  "I am reasonable," he replied. "The leaves have a subtle taste-enhancing effect which has crossed the species barrier, and are widely used by cooks of many warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing races. I am also disappointed."

  "You are also forgetful," said the Nidian. "They would arrive here three days minimum after picking, because that is the fastest they could be hyper-jumped here. Our Orligian procurement of­fice would have no trouble supplying them, but a jump like that is ordered only for urgently-required medication or to carry a criti­cally ill patient. An emergency jump from Orligian to Sector Gen­eral with a crate of herbal plants would most certainly attract the Colonel's attention, so it must be no to that one. Accept the leaves dry-frozen by normal freight delivery and I'll say yes."

  Gurronsevas thought for a moment, then said, "There is an alternative called, on Earth, nutmeg. The taste difference is too subtle to be detected by anything but the most educated of palates, and it travels well. I have added it to the edible mud shell of the magma-flashed Corellian struul dishes to enhance the otherwise bland taste of the fish. And on Nidia the sauce I used with your braised criggleyut contained a sprinkling of nutmeg seasoning to bring out the—"

  "You intend to add criggleyut to our menu?" Creon-Emesh broke in excitedly. "It has been a favorite of mine since my adult fur grew."

  "At the earliest opportunity," Gurronsevas replied, and added, "About fifty pounds of it would be adequate for my Nidian and other-species' requirements."

  Creon-Emesh shook its head. "You haven't been listening to me, Gurronsevas. Without mentioning it to you I have been tre­bling and quadrupling the amounts you have been ordering because you are not asking for enough. Small quantities attract attention. The unloading bay personnel might think that anything that small must be urgently required medication wrongly coded, rather than food, and open it to check, which would bring you to Skempton's attention. With a taste-enhancer that has so much other-species popularity and a long shelf life, I suggest a minimum order of five tons."

  "But it is used in minute quantities," he protested. "Five tons of nutmeg would last us a hundred years!"

  "In a hundred years," said Creon-Emesh, "the hospital will still be here, I expect, and its inhabitants will still be stuffing their eat­ing orifices with food. Is there anything else? I want time for a game before you go."

  Chapter 14

  Visiting the hospital's Pathology Department reminded Gurronsevas of Nidia and his daily trips to the multi-species butcher's to buy fresh meat for the Cromingan-Shesk's carnivore-omnivore menu. Here he was not allowed to serve the whole or par­tially dismembered carcasses on show because they had once har­bored intelligence and the hospital's regulations on that point were strict. No real meat, fresh or unfrozen, must ever be used.

  Thornnastor, the multiply absent-minded Diagnostician-in-Charge, rarely spoke to him but the words of Pathologist Murchison and the rest of the department's staff were helpful, friendly, and, as now, even complimentary.

  "Good morning," said Murchison, looking up from its scan­ner examination of an organic something which he could not iden­tify. "You surprised us yet again. My hus...I mean, Diagnostician Conway says thanks for whatever you did to the synthi-steaks, as do I and, I'm sure, a great many other Earth-humans. Very nice work, Gurronsevas."

  As Diagnostician-in-Charge of Surgery, Conway was second only to Thornnastor among the medical hierarchy, and it was also Murchison's life-mate. In his present situation the gratitude of im­portant beings could only be helpful.

  Greatly pleased, Gurronsevas said self-deprecatingly, "The changes were minor and mostly of presentation, a small matter of culinary psychology, nothing more."

  "Your Diagnostician's Alternative menu," said Thornnastor, turning an eye towards him and speaking directly to Gurronsevas for the first time in three days, "is not a small matter."

  Gurronse
vas agreed. To his mind all of the hospital's Diag­nosticians and Senior Physicians with other-species teaching duties had been little more than culinary cripples who were handicapped to a greater or lesser degree by the alien Educator tape donors who shared their minds, often imposing on them their own alien view­points, emotional responses and, inevitably, food preferences.

  The Educator tape system was necessary to the hospital's op­eration, Gurronsevas had learned, because no doctor, no matter how brilliant or able, could hold in its mind all of the physiologi­cal and pathological data necessary for the treatment of such a large number of other-species patients. With the tapes, however, the im­possible became a matter of simple if sometimes unpleasant rou­tine. A doctor with an other-species patient to treat was impressed with the mind-recording of a medical authority of that species until treatment was completed, after which the tape was erased. The rea­son for this was that the entire mentality of the donor entities were transferred and, even though they had no actual presence, and the host doctor knew this to be so, a non-material personality who had been tops in its field did not easily assume a subordinate position, and often gave the impression that it was the donor rather than the host who was in charge. Only Seniors and Diagnosticians of proven mental stability, and engaged in permanent teaching duties or on­going research projects, were allowed to retain their tapes over long periods, but there was a price to pay.

  Psychological problems were none of Gurronsevas's concern, even though he might have solved one of them. He was slowly ex­tending his Diagnostician's Alternative menu and soon he would be able to cater for every life-form on the senior medical staff. Be­ings like Thornnastor, who possessed the appetite for food normal to a Tralthan of its body-mass, would no longer be seen seated at their dining benches, with eyes averted from the platter, in a vain attempt to conceal the contents from its other-species alter ego, whose revulsion would be communicated to the host mind. Now a tape-ridden diner could simply indicate the dish it required and request a visual presentation that would keep the donor entity happy, and the incidence of senior medical personnel going into pe­riods of involuntary starvation would soon be a thing of the past. Even the acid-tongued Chief Psychologist O'Mara, Gurronsevas had been told, had been faintly complimentary about those par­ticular changes.