by Damon Knight
Some day, when Samuels opened his mouth to say. “Hey, Doc—” Samuels always called him “Doc”—the something inside him was going to break with a sound like a banjo string. What would happen then, Dr. Alvarez was unable to imagine.
When the gorgon had first been brought up to the Satellite, there had been two or three delightful little fungus infections, then nothing. A great disappointment. Alvarez had isolated and cultured almost a hundred microorganisms found in smears he had taken from George, but they were all nonviable in human tissue. The viable bacteria, viruses, parasites that always turned up on a life-infested planet, were evidently lurking in some organism other than the gorgons. They swam, at night, across the optical field of Dr. Alvarez’s dreaming mind—rod-shaped ones, lens-shaped ones, wriggly ones, leggy ones and ones with teeth.
One morning Dr. Alvarez awoke with a desperate resolve. It was a Tuesday. Alvarez went directly to the infirmary, relieved Nurse Trumble, who was on duty, and, opening a locked cabinet, filled a hypodermic from an ampule of clear straw-colored fluid. The trade name of this substance was Betsoff; it was a counter-inhibitant which stunned the censor areas of the forebrain chiefly affected by the Pavlov-Morganstern treatments. (By an odd coincidence, the patentee was a Dr. Jekyll) Alvarez injected two c.c.’s of it directly Into the median basilic vein and sat down to wait.
After a few minutes his perpetual bad humor began to lift. He felt a pleasant ebullience; the colors of things around him seemed brighter and clearer. “Ha!” said Alvarez. He got up and went to his little refrigerator, where, after some search, he found half a dozen of the cultures he had made of microorganisms taken from gorgon smears. They were quiescent, of course—deep-frozen. Alvarez warmed them cautiously and added nutrients. All morning, while the usual succession of minor complaints paraded through the infirmary, the cultures grew and multiplied. Alvarez was jovial with his patients; he cracked a joke or two, and handed out harmless pills all around.
By noon, four of the cultures were flourishing. Alvarez carefully concentrated them into one, and loaded another hypodermic with the resulting brew. To his liverated intelligence, the matter was clear: No organism, man or pig or gorgon, was altogether immune to the microbes it normally carried in its body. Upset the balance by injecting massive colonies of any one of them, and you were going to have a sick gorgon—i.e. Alvarez thought, a punished gorgon.
The treatment might also kill the patient, but Alvarez lightheartedly dismissed this argument as a quibble. (Or quabble?) Armed with his hypo, he went forth looking for George.
He found him in the small assembly room, together with Dominick, Womrath, and a mechanic named Bob Ritner.
They were all standing around a curious instrument, or object of art, built out of bar aluminum. “It’s a rack,” Ritner explained proudly. “I saw a picture of it once in a kid’s book.”
The chief feature of the “rack” was along, narrow table, with a windlass at one end. It looked like a crude device for stretching something.
“We thought the time had come for stern measures,” Dominick said, mopping his head.
“In the olden days,” Ritner put in, “they used these on the prisoners when they wouldn’t talk.”
“I talk,” said George unexpectedly.
“It’s another punishment, George,” Dominick explained kindly. “Well, Alvarez, before we go ahead, I suppose you want to examine your patient.”
“Yes, just so, ha ha!” said Alvarez. He knelt down and peered keenly at George, who swiveled his photoceptors interestedly around to stare back. The doctor prodded George’s hide; it was firm and resilient. The gorgon’s color was a clear pink; the intricate folds of his auricles seemed crisp and alert.
Alvarez took a hand scale from his kit; it was preset for A-level gravity. “Climb up here, George.” Obediently, the gorgon settled himself on the pan of the scale while Alvarez held it up. “Hm,” said Alvarez. “He’s lost a good deal of weight.”
“He has?” asked Dominick hopefully.
“But he seems to be in unusually good condition—better than a week ago, I would say. Perhaps just a little sugar solution to pep him up—” Alvarez withdrew the hypo from his kit, aimed it at George’s smooth skin and pressed the trigger.
Dominick sighed. “Well, I suppose we might as well go ahead. George, just hop up there and let Ritner tie those straps onto you.”
George obediently climbed onto the table. Ritner buckled straps around four of his limbs and then began to tighten the cylinder. “Not too much,” said George anxiously.
“I’ll be careful,” Ritner assured him. He kept on winding the cylinder up. “How does that feel?” George’s “arms” and “legs” were half again their usual length, and still stretching.
“Tickles,” said George.
Ritner went on turning the handle. Womrath coughed nervously and was shushed. George’s limbs kept on getting longer; then his body started to lengthen visibly.
“Are you all right, George?” Dominick asked.
“All right.”
Ritner gave the handle a last despairing twist. George’s elongated body stretched all the way in comfort from one end of the rack to the other: there was no place else for him to go.
“Nice,” said George. “Do again.” He was glowing a happy pink.
Ritner, who seemed about to cry, petulantly kicked his machine. Alvarez snorted and went away. In the corridor, unseen, he jumped up and clicked his heels together. He was having a wonderful time; his only regret was that it was not tomorrow. Come to think of it, why wait till Wednesday?
Commandant Charles Watson Carver, S.S., had been trained to make quick and courageous decisions. Once you began to entertain a doubt of your own rightness, you would hesitate too much, begin to second-guess yourself, fall prey to superstition and anxiety, and end up without any power of decision at all.
The trouble was, you could never be right all the time. Following the book to the letter, or improvising brilliantly, either way, you were bound to make mistakes. The thing was, to cross them off and go ahead just the same.
Carver firmed his chin and straightened his back, looking down at the sick gorgon. It was sick, all right, there was no “question about that: the thing’s limbs drooped and weaved slightly, dizzily. Its hide was dry and hot to the touch. “How long has he been like this?” Carver demanded, hesitating only slightly over the “he”: aliens were “it” to him and always had been, but it didn’t do to let anybody know it.
“Twenty minutes, more or less,” said Dr. Nasalroad. “I just “got here myself”—he stifled a yawn—“about ten minutes ago.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Carver asked him. “It’s ,Alvarez’s shift.”
Nasalroad looked embarrassed. “I know. Alvarez is in the hospital, as a patient. I think he assaulted a cook’s helper named Samuels—poured soup over his head. He was shouting something about boiling the boil on Samuel’s neck. We had to put him under sedation; it took three of us.”
Carver set his jaw hard. “Nasalroad, what in thunder is happening on this wheel, anyhow? First this thing attacks my wife—then Alvarez—” He glared down at George. “Can you pull him out of this, whatever it is?”
Nasalroad looked surprised. “That would be a large order. We don’t know any gorgon medicine—I was assuming you’d want to beam down and ask them.”
That was reasonable, of course: the only hitch was, as usual, a matter of interpretation. Was this something they had negligently allowed to happen to an important alien representative, or was it the necessary and proper punishment they had all been looking for? Carver glanced at his thumbwatch: it was just about three hours before the elders’ deadline.
He asked Nasalroad, “What color would you say he is now? Not pink, certainly.”
“No-o. But not blue, either. I’d call it a kind of violet.”
“Hm. Well, anyhow, he’s got smaller than he was, isn’t that right? Conspicuously smaller.”
Nasalroad admit
ted it.
Carver made his decision. “Do the best you can,” he said to Nasalroad. He lifted his wristcom, said briskly, “Have you got a line-of-sight to the planethead?”
“Yes, sir,” the operator answered.
“All right, get me Rubinson.”
A few seconds passed. “Planethead.”
“Rubinson, this is Carver. Tell the elders we’ve got a pretty unhappy gorgon here. We’re not sure just what did it—might have been anyone of a lot of things—but he’s lost a good deal of weight, and his color”—Carver hesitated—“it’s bluish. Definitely bluish. Got that?”
“Yes, chief. Thank goodness! I’ll pass the message along right away, and call you back.”
“Right.” Carver closed the wristcom with an assertive snap. The gorgon, when he glanced down at it, looked sicker than ever, but never mind. What happened to the gorgon was its lookout; Carver was doing his duty.
III
Alvarez awoke with a horrible headache and a sense of guilt. He was not in his own cubicle, but in one of the hospital bunks, dressed in a regulation set of hospital pajamas (with removable hood—and gloves, capable of being converted into a spacesuit). He could just see the wall clock at the far end of the room. It was twenty-three hours—well into his shift. Alvarez scuttled out of bed, groaning, and looked at the chart beside it. Mania, delusions. Sedation. Signed Nasalroad.
Delusions: yes, he was having one now. He imagined he could remember heaving up a big tureen of mock-turtle soup over Samuels’s startled face-splash, a smoking green torrent.
Good heavens! If that was real—Samuels! And the gorgon!
Groaning and lurching, Alvarez darted out of the room, past the orderly, Munch, who was sitting with a story viewer on his lap and couldn’t get up fast enough. “Dr. Alvarez! Dr. Nasalroad said—”
“Never mind Nasalroad,” he snapped, pawing in the refrigerator. He remembered those cultures being right back there: but now they were gone.
“—not to let you up until you acted normal again. Uh, how do you feel, Doctor?”
“I feel fine! What difference does that make? How is he?”
Munch looked puzzled and apprehensive. “Samuels? Just superficial burns. We put him to bed in his own cubby, because—”
“Not Samuels!” Alvarez hissed, grabbing Munch by the front of his suit. “The gorgon!”
“Oh, well, he’s been sick, too. How did you know, though, Doctor? You were snoring when it happened. Listen, let go my suit, you’re making me nervous.”
“Where?” Alvarez demanded, thrusting his scrawny face close to the other’s.
“Where what? Oh, you mean the gorgon? Up in the little assembly room, the last I—”
Alvarez was gone, out the door and down the corridor like a small, bearded fireball. He found an anxious crowd assembled—Commandant and Mrs. Carver, Dominick and his staff, Urban and two assistants from Semantics, orderlies, porters, and Dr. Nasalroad. Nasalroad had the gaunt and bright-eyed appearance of a man who has been on wake-up pills too long. He started when he saw Alvarez.
“What’s up?” Alvarez demanded, grabbing his sleeve.
“Where’s the gorgon? What—”
“Be quiet,” said Nasalroad. “George is over in that corner behind Carver. We’re waiting for the delegation from planetside. Rubinson said they were coming up, three of them with some kind of a box…”
A loudspeaker said suddenly, “I have the tender locked on. Contact. Contact is made. The lock is opening; get ready, here they come.”
Alvarez couldn’t see past Carver’s bulk; he tried to get away, but Nasalroad stopped him. “I want to see,” he said irritably.
“Listen,” Nasalroad said. “I know what you did. I checked the Bets-off and those cultures against inventory. The gorgon seems to be recovering nicely, no thanks to you. Now has the stuff worn off you, or not? Because if not—”
A rustle went over the group. Alvarez and Nasalroad turned in time to see the door opening. Two large, vigorous-looking gorgons waddled through; they were carrying an enameled metal box between them. “Foop!” said the first one, experimentally. “Where is gorgon George?”
“I’m all right,” Alvarez muttered. “If I wasn’t, I’d have done something uncivilised to you by now, wouldn’t I?”
“I guess so,” said Nasalroad. They elbowed closer as the group shifted, making a space around the three gorgons. Peering, on tiptoe, Alvarez could see George standing shakily beside the other two. “He looks terrible. Those are big ones, those other two, aren’t they?”
“Not as big as George was when we got him,” Nasalroad muttered. “Listen, Walt, if it turns out you’ve ruined the whole thing, I’ll take a dose of Bets-off myself, and—”
“Listen!” snarled Alvarez. One of the gorgons was explaining. “This is panga box. What you call? You know panga?”
“Well, uh, yes and no,” said Dominick uncomfortably. “But what about the punishment? We understood—”
“Punishment later. You George, go in box.”
Obediently, George waddled over and squatted beside the mouth of the box. He bobbed uncertainly; he looked for all the world like a large woman trying to get into a small sports copter. There was a minor outbreak of nervous laughter, quickly suppressed.
George leaned, retracting most of his upper appendages. His round body began to be composed into a squarish shape, wedging itself into the box.
The other gorgons watched with an air of tension, photoceptors rigidly extended. A hush fell. Among the humans present there was a general air of Why-are-we-all-whispering?
George wriggled and oozed farther into the box. Momentarily he stuck. He flicked blue, then pink. His “feet,” almost retracted, scrabbled feebly at the bottom of the box. Then he was in.
One of the other gorgons solemnly closed the lid on him and fastened it to make sure, then opened it again and helped him out. All three gorgons began to make rhythmic swaying motions with their “arms” and other appendages. George, Alvarez thought, looked smug. He felt a sudden premonitory pang. What had he done?
“What’s it all about?” Nasalroad demanded. “Are they measuring him for a coffin, or—”
Dominick, overhearing, turned and said, “I don’t think so. Now this is interesting. You remember they said a panga box. What I’m afraid of is, they may have a standard of size. You see what I mean, they’re measuring George to see if he falls below the minimum standard of, uh, panga relations.”
“Oh, heavens,” said another voice. It was Urban of Semantics, who had been neglected of late; they hadn’t needed him since George learned English. He was peering over Dominick’s shoulder, looking dumbfounded. He said, “But don’t you know the word we’ve been translating ‘elders’ really means ‘smallest ones’? Good heavens—”
“I don’t see—” Dominick began, but the Commandant’s voice drowned him out. “Quiet! Quiet please!” Carver was trumpeting. He went on, “Our friends from Seven have an announcement to make. Now, then.”
To everyone’s surprise, it was George who spoke, in the lisping accents of the gorgon language. No human present understood a word of it except Urban, who turned pale under his tan and began stammering inaudibly to himself.
One of the larger gorgons began to speak when George stopped. “Most elder person, known to you by name George, wishes me to thank you all for kindness done him when he was humble youth.”
(“Youth,” muttered Urban. “But it really means “ungainly one”—or “fat boy”! Oh, my heavens!”)
“Now that he has become an elder, it will be his most pleasure to repay all kindness in agreeable legislative manner.”
(“What does that mean?” Alvarez said aggrievedly. “Why can’t he talk for himself, anyway?”
“It would be. beneath his dignity now,” said Nasalroad. “Hush!”)
“—If,” said the gorgon, “you will succeed in giving elder person, known by name George, proper punishment as aforesaid.”
While the o
thers stared with dumb dismay, Carver briskly snapped open his wristcom. “Exactly how long have we got till that gorgon deadline is up?” he demanded.
There was a pause, while ears strained to catch the tiny voice.
“Just under half an hour.”
“This meeting will come to order!” said Carver, banging on the table, George and the other two gorgons were sitting opposite him, with the centerpiece of nasturtiums and ferns between them. Grouped around Carver were Dominick, Urban, Womrath, Alvarez, Nasalroad, Kelly and Ritner.
“Now this is the situation,” Carver said aggressively. “This gorgon turns out to be a member of their ruling council, I don’t understand why, but never mind that now—the point is, he’s friendly disposed towards us, so we’ve succeeded in this mission if we can find that proper punishment—otherwise we’re in the soup. Suggestions.”
(Dominick craned his bald head toward Alvarez across the table. “Doctor, I had a thought,” he murmured. “Would you say—is there anything peculiar about the gorgon’s body constitution, as compared say to ours?”
“Certainly,” said Alvarez, dourly. “Any number of things. You name it, they—”
Giving them a dirty look, Carver nodded to Ritner. “Yes?”
“Well, I was thinking. I know the rack was a washout, but there was another. thing they used to use, called the Iron Virgin. It had a door, like, with spikes on it—”
(“What I had in mind,” Dominick said, “is there anything that would tend to limit their body size—any danger or disadvantage in growing large?”
Alvarez frowned and looked at Nasalroad, who hitched his chair closer. “The pressure—?” said Nasalroad tentatively. They rubbed their chins and looked at each other with professional glints in their eyes.