Hospital Station sg-1

by James White

  Two hours slipped by and they had the possibilities narrowed down to a single heavy pipe which was obviously the outlet, and a thick bundle of metal tubing which just had to bring the air in.

  Apparently there were seven air inlets!

  “A being that needs seven different chemical …” began Hendricks, and lapsed into a baffled silence.

  “Only one line carries the main constituent,” Conway said. “The others must contain necessary trace elements or inert components, such as the nitrogen in our own air. If those regulator valves you can see on each tube had not closed when the compartment lost pressure we could tell by the settings the proportions involved.”

  He spoke confidently, but Conway was not feeling that way. He had premonitions.

  Kursedd moved forward. From its kit the nurse produced a small cutting torch, focused the flame to a six-inch, incandescent needle, then gently brought it into contact with one of the seven inlet pipes. Conway moved closer, an open sample flask held at the ready.

  Yellowish vapor spurted suddenly and Conway pounced. His flask now held little more than a slightly soft vacuum, but there was enough of the gas caught inside for analysis purposes. Kursedd attacked another section of tubing.

  “Judging by sight alone I would say that is chlorine,” the DBLF said as it worked. “And if chlorine is the main constituent of its atmosphere then a modified PVSJ ward could take the survivor.”

  “Somehow,” said Conway, “I don’t think it will be as simple as that.”

  He had barely finished speaking when a high-pressure jet-white vapor filled the room with fog. Kursedd jerked back instinctively, pulling the flame away from the holed pipe, and the vapor changed to a clear liquid which bubbled out to hang as shrinking, furiously steaming globes all around them. They looked and acted like water, Conway thought, as he collected another sample.

  With the third puncture the cutting flame, held momentarily in the jet of escaping gas, swelled and brightened visibly. That reaction was unmistakable.

  “Oxygen,” said Kursedd, putting Conway’s thoughts into words, “or a high oxygen content.—

  “The water doesn’t bother me,” Hendricks put in, “but chlorine and oxy is a pretty unbreathable mixture.”

  “I agree,” said Conway. “Any being who breathes chlorine finds oxygen lethal in a matter of seconds, and vice versa. But one of the gases might form a very small percentage of the whole, a mere trace. It is also possible that both gases are trace constituents and the main component hasn’t turned up yet.”

  The four remaining lines were pierced and samples taken within a few minutes, during which Kursedd had obviously been pondering over Conway’s statement. Just before it left for the tender and the analysis equipment therein the nurse paused.

  “If these gases are in trace quantity only,” it said in its toneless, Translated voice, “why are not all the trace and inert elements, even the oxidizer or its equivalent, pre-mixed and pumped in together as we and most other races do it? They all leave by one pipe.”

  Conway harrumphed. Precisely the same question had been bothering him, and he couldn’t even begin to answer it. He said sharply, “Right now I want those samples analyzed, get moving on that. Lieutenant Hendricks and I will try to work out the physical size and pressure requirements of the being. And don’t worry,” he ended dryly, “all things will eventually become plain.”

  “Let us hope the answers come during curative surgery,” Kursedd gave out as a parting shot, “and not at the post-mortem.”

  Without further urging Hendricks began lifting aside the buckled floor plating to get at the artificial gravity grids. Conway thought that he looked like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, so he left him to it and went looking for furniture.

  III

  The disaster had not been as other shipwrecks, where all movable objects together with a large number normally supposed to be immovable were lifted and hurled toward the point of impact. Here, instead, there had been a brief, savage shock which had disrupted the binding powers of practically every bolt, rivet and weld in the ship. Furniture, which was about the most easily damaged item in any ship, had suffered worst.

  From a chair or bed could be told the shape, carriage and number of limbs of its user with fair accuracy, or if it possessed a hard tegument or required artificial padding for comfort. And a study of materials and design could give the gravity-pull which the being considered normal. But Conway was dead out of luck.

  Some of the bits and pieces floating weightless in every compartment were almost certainly furniture, but they were so thoroughly mixed together that it was like trying to make sense of the scrambled parts of sixteen jigsaw puzzles. He thought of calling O’Mara, then decided against it. The Major would not be interested in how well he wasn’t getting on.

  He was searching the ruins of what might have been a row of lockers, hoping wistfully to strike a bonanza in the shape of clothing or an e-t pin-up picture, when Kursedd called.

  “The analysis is complete,” the nurse reported. “There is nothing unusual about the samples when considered separately. As a mixture they would be lethal to any species possessing a respiratory system. Mix them any way you want the result is a sludgy, poisonous mess.

  “Be more explicit,” said Conway sharply. “I want data, not opinions.”

  “As well as the gases already identified,” Kursedd replied, “there is ammonia, CO2, and two inerts. Together, and in any combination of which I can conceive, they form an atmosphere which is heavy, poisonous and highly opaque …

  “It can’t be!” Conway snapped back. “You saw their interior paintwork, they used pastels a lot. Races living in an opaque atmosphere would not be sensitive to subtle variations of color—”

  “Doctor Conway,” Hendricks’ voice broke in apologetically, “I’ve finished checking that grid. So far as I can tell it’s rigged to pull five Gs.”

  A pull of five times Earth-normal gravity meant a proportionately high atmospheric pressure. The being must breathe a thick, poisonous soup — but a clear soup, he added hastily to himself. And there were other more immediate, and perhaps deadly, implications as well.

  To Hendricks he said quickly, “Tell the rescue team to watch their step-without slowing down, if possible. Any beastie living under five Gs is apt to have muscles, and people in the survivor’s position have been known to run amuck.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Hendricks worriedly, and signed off. Conway returned to Kursedd.

  “You heard the Lieutenant’s report,” he resumed in a quieter voice. “Try combinations under high pressure. And remember, we want a clear atmosphere!”

  There was a long pause, then: “Very well. But I must add that I dislike wasting time, even when I am ordered to do so.”

  For several seconds Conway practiced savage self-restraint until a click in his phones told him that the DBLF had broken contact. Then he said a few words which, even had they been subjected to the emotion filtering process of Translation, would have left no doubt in any e-t’s mind that he was angry.

  But slowly his rage toward this stupid, conceited, downright impertinent nurse he had been given began to fade. Perhaps Kursedd wasn’t stupid, no matter what else it might be. Suppose it was right about the opacity of that atmosphere, where did that leave them? The answer was with yet another piece of contradictory evidence.

  The whole wreck was stuffed with contradictions, Conway thought wearily. The design and construction did not suggest a high-G species, yet the artificial gravity grids could produce up to five Gs. And the interior color schemes pointed to a race possessing a visual range close to Conway’s own. But the air they lived in, according to Kursedd, would need radar to see through. Not to mention a needlessly complex air-supply system and a bright orange outer hull …

  For the twentieth time Conway tried to form a meaningful picture from the data at his disposal, in vain. Maybe if he attacked the' problem from a different direction..

  A
bruptly he snapped on his radio’s transmit switch and said, “Lieutenant Hendricks, will you connect me with the hospital, please. I want to talk to O’Mara. And I would like Captain Summerfield, yourself and Kursedd in on it, too. Can you arrange that?”

  Hendricks made an affirmative noise and said, “Hang on a minute.”

  Interspersed by clicks, buzzes and bleeps, Conway heard the chopped-up voices of Hendricks, a Monitor radio officer on Sheldon calling up the hospital and requesting Summerfield to come to the radio room, and the flat, Translated tones of an e-t operator in the hospital itself. In a little under the stipulated minute the babble subsided and the stern, familiar voice of O’Mara barked, “Chief Psychologist here. Go ahead.”

  As briefly as possible Conway outlined the situation at the wreck, his lack of progress to date and the contradictory data they had uncovered. Then he went on … The rescue team is working toward the center of the wreck because that is the most likely place for the survivor to be. But it may be in a pocket off to one side somewhere and we may have to search every compartment in the ship to be sure of finding it. This could take many days. The survivor,” he went on grimly, “if not already dead must be in a very bad way. We don’t have that much time.”

  “You have a problem, Doctor. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Well,” Conway replied evasively, “a more general picture of the situation might help. If Captain Summerfield could tell me about the finding of the wreck — its position, course, or any personal impressions he can remember. For instance, would the extension each way of its direction of flight help us find its planet of origin? That would solve—”

  “I’m afraid not, Doctor,” Summerfield’s voice came in. “Sighting backward we found that its course passed through a not-too-distant solar system. But this system had been mapped by us over a century previous and listed as a future possibility for colonization, which as you know means that it was devoid of intelligent life. No race can rise from nothing to a spaceship technology in one hundred years, so the wreck could not have originated in that system. Extending the line forward led nowhere — into intergalactic space, to be exact. In my opinion, the accident must have caused a violent change in course, so that the wreck’s position and course when found will tell you nothing.

  “So much for that idea,” said Conway sadly, then in a more determined voice he went on, “But the other half of the wreck is out there somewhere. If we could find that, especially if it contained the body or bodies of other members of its crew, that would solve everything! I admit that it’s a roundabout way to do it, but judging by our present rate of progress it might be the fastest way. I want a search made for the other half of the wreck,” Conway ended, and waited for the storm to break.

  Captain Summerfield demonstrated that he had the fastest reaction time by getting in the first blast.

  “Impossible! You don’t know what you’re asking! It would take two hundred units or more-a whole Sector sub-fleet! — to cover that area in the time necessary to do you any good. And all this is just to find a dead specimen so you can analyze it and maybe help another specimen, which by that time might be dead as well. I know that life is more valuable in your book than any material considerations,” Summerfield continued in a somewhat quieter voice, “but this verges on the ridiculous. Besides, I haven’t the authority to order, or even suggest, such an operation—”

  “The Hospital has,” O’Mara broke in gruffly, then to Conway: “You’re sticking your neck out, Doctor. If as a result of the search the survivor is saved, I don’t think much will be said regarding the fuss and expense caused. The Corps might even give you a pat on the back for putting them on to another intelligent species. But if this alien dies, or it turns out that it was already dead before the search was begun, you, Doctor, are for it.”

  Looking at the thing honestly, Conway could not say that he was more than normally concerned about his patient, and definitely not enough to want to throw away his career in the faint hope of saving the being. It was more an angry curiosity which drove him, and a vague feeling that the conflicting data they possessed formed part of a picture which included much more than just a wreck and its lone survivor. Aliens did not build ships for the sole purpose of bewildering Earth-human doctors, so the apparently contradictory evidence had to mean something.

  For a moment Conway thought he had the answer. Growing at the fringes of his mind was a dim, still-formless picture … which was obliterated, violently and completely, by the excited voice of Hendricks in his phones:

  “Doctor, we’ve found the alien!”

  When Conway joined him a few minutes later he found a portable airlock in position. Hendricks and the men of the rescue team had their helmets together talking, so as not to tie up the radio circuit. But the most wonderful sight of all to Conway was the tightly-stretched fabric of the lock.

  There was pressure inside.

  Hendricks switched suddenly to radio and said, “You can go in, Doctor. Now that we’ve found it we can open the door instead of melting through.” He indicated the taut fabric beside him and added, “Pressure in there is about twelve pounds.”

  That wasn’t a lot, thought Conway soberly, considering that the survivor’s normal environment was supposed to be five-Gs, with the tremendous air-pressure which went with such a killing gravity. He hoped that it was enough to sustain life. There must have been a slow leakage of air since the accident, he thought. Maybe the being’s internal pressure had equalized sufficiently to save it.

  “Get an air sample to Kursedd, quickly!” Conway said. Once they knew the composition it used it would be a simple matter to increase pressure when they had the being in the tender. He added quickly, “And I want four men to stand by at the tender. We’ll need special equipment to get the survivor out of here and I might need it in a hurry.”

  With Hendricks he entered the tiny lock. The Lieutenant checked the seals, worked the manual control beside the door, and straightened up. A creaking in Conway’s suit told of mounting pressure as air from the compartment beyond rushed in. It was clear air, he noted with some satisfaction, and not the super-thick fog which Kursedd had predicted. The air-tight door slid aside, hesitated as the still-hot section moved into its recess, then came fully open with a rush.

  “Don’t come in unless I call you,” Conway said quietly, and stepped through. In his phones there was a grunt of assent from Hendricks, followed closely by the voice of Kursedd announcing that it was recording.

  The first glimpse of the new physiological type was always a confused blur to Conway. His mind insisted on trying to relate its physical features to others in his experience, and whether it was successful or not in this the process took a little time.

  “Conway!” O’Mara’s voice came sharply. “Have you gone to sleep?”

  Conway had forgotten about O’Mara, Summerfield and the assorted radio operators who were still linked up with him. He cleared his throat and hastily began to talk:

  “The being is ring-shaped, rather like a large balloon tire. Overall diameter of the ring is about nine feet, with the thickness between two and three feet. Mass appears to be about four times my own. I can see no movements, nor indications of gross physical injury.”

  He took a deep breath and went on, “Tegument is smooth, shiny and gray in color where it is not covered with a thick, brownish encrustation. The brown stuff, which covers more than half of the total skin area, looks cancerous but may be some type of natural camouflage. Or it might be the result of severe decompression.

  “The outer surface of the ring contains a double row of short, tentacular limbs at present folded flat against the body. There are five pairs, and no evidence of specialization. Neither can I see any visual organs or means of ingestion. I’m going to have a closer look.”

  There was no visible reaction as he approached the creature, and he began to wonder if they had reached it too late. There was still no sign of eyes or mouth, but he could see small gill-like open
ings and something which looked like an ear. He reached out and gently touched one of the tightly-folded limbs.

  The being seemed to explode.

  Conway was sent spinning backward against the floor, his whole right arm numb from the blow which, had he not been wearing a heavy-duty suit, would have smashed his wrist. Frantically he worked the G-belt controls to hold him against the deck, then began inching backward toward the door. The babble of questions in his phones gradually sorted itself into two main ones: Why had he shouted, and what were the banging noises currently going on?

  Conway said shakily, “Uh … I have established that the survivor is alive …

  The watching Hendricks made a choking sound. “I don’t believe,” said the Lieutenant in an awed voice, “that I have ever seen anything more so.

  “Talk sense, you two!” O’Mara snapped. “What is happening?”

  That was a difficult question to answer, Conway thought as he watched the tire-like being half-rolling, half-bouncing about the compartment. Physical contact with the survivor had triggered off a panic reaction, and while Conway had without doubt been the cause the first time, now contact with anything — walls, floor, or loose debris floating about the room — had the same result. Five pairs of strong, flexible limbs lashed out in a vicious, two-foot radius arc, the force of which sent the being skidding across the room again. And no matter which part of the massive ring body it was it struck out blindly in all directions at once.