by James White
“The trouble is,” he ended grimly, “we may have almost stopped its circulation once too often.”
“I disagree, friend Conway,” said Prilicla, who never disagreed with anyone as a rule. The empath’s body and pipestem legs were quivering, but slowly in the manner of a Cinrusskin who was being exposed to emotion of a comfortable type. It went on, “The patient is regaining consciousness quickly. It is fully conscious now. There is a suggestion of dull, unlocalized pain which is almost certainly caused by hunger, but this is already beginning to fade. It is feeling slightly anxious, very excited and intensely curious.”
“Curious?” said Conway.
“Curiosity is the predominating emotion, Doctor.”
“Our early astronauts,” said O’Mara, “were very special people, too …”
It was more than an hour later by the time they were finished, medically speaking, with the Meatball astronaut and were climbing out of their suits. A Corps linguist was sharing the ferris wheel with the alien with the intention of adding, with the minimum of delay, a new e-t language to the memory banks of the hospital’s translation computer, and Colonel Skempton had left to compose a rather tricky message to the Captain of Descartes.
“The news isn’t all good,” Conway said, grinning with relief despite himself. “For one thing, our ‘patient’ wasn’t suffering from anything other than malnutrition, partial asphyxiation and general mishandling as a result of being rescued—or rather kidnaped—by Descartes. As well, it shows no special aptitude in the use of the thought-controlled tools and seems completely unfamiliar with the things. This can only mean that there is another intelligent race on Meatball. But when our friend can talk properly I don’t think there will be much difficulty getting it to help us find the real owners—it doesn’t hold any grudges for the number of times we nearly killed it, Prilicla says, and … and I don’t know how we managed to come out of this so well after all the stupid mistakes we made.”
“And if you are trying to extract a compliment from me for another brilliant piece of deductive reasoning, or your lucky guess,” said O’Mara sourly, “you are wasting your time and mine …”
Mannon said, “Let’s all have lunch.”
Turning to go, O’Mara said, “You know I don’t eat in public—it gives the impression that I am an ordinary human being like everyone else. Besides, I’ll be too busy working out a set of tests for yet another so-called intelligent species …”
BLOOD BROTHER
This is not a purely medical assignment, Doctor,“said O’Mara when Conway was summoned to the Chief Psychologist’s office three days later,”although that is the most important, naturally. Should your problems develop political complications—”
“I shall be guided by the vast experience of the cultural-contact specialists of the Monitor Corps,” said Conway.
“Your tone, Doctor Conway,” said O’Mara dryly, “is an implied criticism of the splendid body of men and creatures to which I have the honor to belong …”
The third person in the room continued to make gurgling sounds as it rotated ponderously like some large, organic prayer wheel, but otherwise said nothing.
“ … But we’re wasting time,” O’Mara went on. “You have two days before your ship leaves for Meatball—time enough, I should think, to tidy up any personal or professional loose ends. You had better study the details of this project as much as possible, while you still have comfortable surroundings in which to work.”
He continued, “I have decided, reluctantly, to exclude Doctor Prilicla from this assignment—Meatball is no place for a being who is so hypersensitive to emotional radiation that it practically curls up and dies if anyone thinks a harsh thought at it. Instead you will have Surreshun here, who has volunteered to act as your guide and adviser—although why it is doing so when it was quite literally kidnaped and nearly killed by us is a mystery to me …”
“It is because I am so brave and generous and forgiving,” said Surreshun in its flat, Translated voice. Still rotating, it added, “I am also farsighted and altruistic and concerned only with the ultimate good of both our species.”
“Yes,” said O’Mara in a carefully neutral voice. “But our purpose it not completely altruistic. We plan to investigate and assess the medical requirements on your home planet with a view to rendering assistance in this area. Since we are also generous, altruistic and … and highly ethical this assistance will be given freely in any case, but if you should offer to make available to us a number of those instruments, quasiliving implements, tools or what ever you choose to call them which originate on your planet—”
“But Surreshun has already told us that its race does not use them …” began Conway.
“And I believe it,” said Major O’Mara. “But we know that they come from its home planet and it is your problem—one of your problems, Doctor—to find the people who do use them. And now, if there are no other questions …”
A few minutes later they were in the corridor. Conway looked at his watch and said, “Lunch. I don’t know about you, but I always think better with my mouth full. The water breathers’ section is just two levels above us—
“It is kind of you to offer but I realize how inconvenient it is for your species to eat in my environment,” replied Surreshun. “My life-support equipment contains an interesting selection of food and, although I am completely unselfish and thoughtful where the comfort of my friends is concerned, I shall be returning home in two days and the opportunities of experiencing multienvironment conditions and contacts are therefore limited. I should prefer to use the dining facilities of your warm-blooded oxygen breathers.”
Conway’s sigh of relief was untranslatable. He merely said, “After you.”
As they entered the dining hall Conway tried to decide whether to eat standing up like a Tralthan or risk giving himself a multiple hernia on a Melfan torture rack. All the Earth-human tables were taken.
Conway insinuated himself into a Melfan chair while Surreshun, whose food supply was suspended in the water it breathed, parked its mobile life-support system as close as possible to the table. He was about to order when there was an interruption. Thornnastor, the Diagnostician-in-Charge of Pathology, lumbered up, directed an eye at each of them while the other two surveyed the room at large and made a noise like a modulated foghorn.
The sounds were retransmitted in the usual toneless voice saying, “I saw you come in, Doctor and Friend Surreshun, and wondered if we might discuss your assignment for a few minutes—before you begin your meal …”
Like all its fellow Tralthans Thornnastor was a vegetarian. Conway had the choice of eating salad—a food which he considered fit only for rabbits—or waiting, as his superior had suggested, on a steak.
At the tables around them people finished their lunches and walked, undulated and, in one case, flew out to be replaced by a similar assortment of extraterrestrials, and still Thornnastor continued to discuss methods of processing the data and specimens they would be sending him and the efficient organization of this planet-sized medical examination. As the being responsible for analyzing this mass of incoming data it had very definite ideas on how the job should be handled.
But finally the pathologist lumbered off, Conway ordered his steak and for a few minutes he performed major surgery with knife and fork in silence. Then he became aware that Surreshun’s Translator was making a low, erratic growling sound which was probably the equivalent of the untranslatable noise an Earth-human would make clearing his throat. He asked, “You have a question?”
“Yes,” said Surreshun. It made another untranslatable sound then went on, “Brave and resourceful and emotionally stable as I am …”
“Modest, too,” said Conway dryly.
“ … I cannot help but feel slightly concerned over tomorrow’s visit to the being O’Mara’s office. Specifically, will it hurt and are there any mental aftereffects?”
“Not a bit and none at all,” said Conway reassuringly. He w
ent onto explain the procedure used for taking a brain recording or Educator Tape, adding that the whole affair was entirely voluntary and should the idea cause Surreshun mental or physical distress it could change its mind at any time without loss of respect. It was doing the hospital a great service by allowing O’Mara to prepare this tape, a tape which would enable them to gain a full and valuable understanding of Surreshun’s world and society.
Surreshun was still making the equivalent of “Aw, shucks” noises when they finished their meal. Shortly afterward it left for a roll around the water-filled AUGL ward and Conway headed for his own section.
Before morning he would have to make a start on tidying up loose ends, familiarizing himself with Meatball conditions and drawing up some fairly detailed plans for procedure prior to arrival—if for no other reason than to give the corpsman who would be assisting him the idea that Sector General doctors knew what they were doing.
Currently in his charge were a ward of silver furred caterpillar Kelgians and the hospital’s Tralthan maternity section. He was also responsible for a small ward of Hudlars, with their hide like flexible armor plate, whose artificial gravity system was set at five Gs and whose atmosphere was a dense, high-pressure fog—and the oddball TLTU classification entity hailing from he knew not where who breathed superheated steam. It took more than a few hours to tidy up such a collection of loose ends.
The courses of treatment or convalescence were well advanced, but he felt obliged to have a word with them all and say good-bye because they would be discharged and back on their home planets long before he returned from Meatball.
Conway had a hurried and unbalanced meal off an instrument trolley, and then decided to call Murchison. Reaction to his lengthy bout of medical dedication was setting in, he thought cynically, and he was beginning to think only of his own selfish pleasure …
But in Pathology they told him that Murchison was on duty in the methane section, encased in a small half-track vehicle—heavily insulated, jammed with heaters inside, hung with refrigerators outside—which was the only way of entering the Cold Section without both freezing herself to death within seconds and blasting the life out of every patient in the ward with her body heat.
He was able to get through to her on a relay from the ward’s duty room but, remembering the ears both human and otherwise which were probably listening in, he spoke briefly and professionally about his coming assignment and the possibility that she might be able to join him on Meatball in her capacity as a pathologist, and suggested that they discuss the details on the recreation level when she came off duty. He discovered that that would not be for six hours. While she spoke he could hear in the background the ineffably sweet and delicate tinkling—like the chiming of colliding snowflakes, he thought—of a ward full of intelligent crystals talking to each other.
Six hours later they were in the recreation level, where trick lighting and some really inspired landscaping gave an illusion of spaciousness, lying on a small, tropical beach enclosed on two sides by cliffs and open to a sea which seemed to stretch for miles. Only the alien vegetation growing from the clifftops kept it from looking like a tropical bay anywhere on Earth, but then space was at a premium in Sector General and the people who worked together were expected to play together as well.
Conway was feeling very tired and he realized suddenly that he would have been due to start tomorrow morning’s rounds in two hours’ time if he still had had rounds to make. But tomorrow—today, that was—would be even busier and, if he knew his O’Mara, Conway would not be completely himself …
When he awakened, Murchison was leaning over him with an expression which was a mixture of amusement, irritation and concern. Punching him not too gently in the stomach she said, “You went to sleep on me, in the middle of a sentence, over an hour ago! I don’t like that—it makes me feel insecure, unwanted, unattractive to men.” She went on punishing his diaphragm. “I expected to hear some inside information, at least. Some idea of the problems or dangers of your new job and how long you will be gone. At very least I expected a warm and tender farewell …”
“If you want to fight,” said Conway laughing, “let’s wrestle …”
But she slipped free and took off for the water. With Conway close behind she dived into the area of turbulence surrounding a Tralthan who was being taught how to swim. He thought he had lost her until a slim, tanned arm came around his neck from behind and he swallowed half of the artificial ocean.
While they were catching their breath again on the hot, artificial sand, Conway told her about the new assignment and about the tape taken from Surreshun which he was expected to take shortly. Descartes was not due to leave for another thirty-six hours, but for most of that time Conway would have delusions of being an animated doughnut which probably considered all Earth-human females as shapeless and unlovely bags of dough, or perhaps something much worse.
They left the recreation level a few minutes later, talking about the best way of wangling her release from Thornnastor, to whose elephantine species the word romance was just an unTranslatable noise.
There was no real necessity for them to leave the recreation level, of course. It was just that the Earth-human DBDGs were the only race in the Galactic Federation with a nudity taboo, and one of the very few member species with an aversion to making love in public.
Surreshun had already gone when Conway arrived in Major O’Mara’s office. “You know it all already, Doctor,” said the psychologist as he and Lieutenant Craythorne, his assistant, hooked him up to the Educator. “But I am nevertheless required to warn you that the first few minutes following memory transfer are the worst—it is then that the human mind feels sure that it is being taken over by the alien alter ego. This is a purely subjective phenomenon caused by the sudden influx of alien memories and experience. You must try to maintain flexibility of mind and adapt to these alien, sometimes very alien, impressions as quickly as possible. How you do this is up to you. Since this is a completely new tape I shall monitor your reactions in case of trouble. How do you feel?”
“Fine,” said Conway, and yawned.
“Don’t show off,” said O’Mara, and threw the switch.
Conway came to a few seconds later in a small, square, alien room whose planes and outlines, like its furnishings, were too straight and sharp-edged. Two grotesque entities—a small part of his mind insisted they were his friends—towered over him, studying him with flat, wet eyes set in two faces made of shapeless pink dough. The room, its occupants and himself were motionless and …
He was dying!
Conway was aware suddenly that he had pushed O’Mara onto the floor and that he was sitting on the edge of the treatment couch, fists clenched, arms crossed tightly over his chest, swaying rapidly back and forth. But the movement did not help at all—the room was still too horrifying, dizzyingly steady! He was sick with vertigo, his vision was fading, he was choking, losing all sense of touch …
“Take it easy, lad,” said O’Mara gently. “Don’t fight it. Adapt.”
Conway tried to swear at him but the sound which came out was like the bleat of a terrified small animal. He rocked forward and back, faster and faster, waggling his head from side to side. The room jerked and rolled about but it was still too steady. The steadiness was terrifying and lethal. How, Conway asked himself in utter desperation, does one adapt to dying?
“Pull up his sleeve, Lieutenant,” said O’Mara urgently, “and hold him steady.”
Conway lost control then. The alien entity who apparently had control would not allow anyone to immobilize its body—that was unthinkable! He jumped to his feet and staggered into O’Mara’s desk. Still trying to find a movement which would pacify the alien inside his mind Conway crawled on hands and knees through the organized clutter on top of the desk, rolling and shaking his head.
But the alien in his mind was dizzy from standing still and the Earth-human portion was dizzy from too much movement. Conway was no psychologist b
ut he knew that if he did not think of something quickly he would end up as a patient—of O’Mara’s—instead of a doctor, because his alien was firmly convinced that it was dying, right now.
Even by proxy, dying was going to be a severe traumatic experience.
He had had an idea when he climbed onto the desk, but it was hard to recall it when most of his mind was in the grip of panic reaction. Someone tried to pull him off and he kicked until they let go, but the effort made him lose his balance and he tumbled head first onto O’Mara’s swivel chair. He felt himself rolling toward the floor and instinctively shot out his leg to check the fall. The chair swiveled more than 180 degrees, so he kicked out again, and again. The chair continued to rotate, erratically at first, but then more smoothly as he got the hang of it.
His body was jackknifed on its side around the back of the chair, the left thigh and knee resting flat on the seat while the right foot kicked steadily against the floor. It was not too difficult to imagine that the filing cabinets, bookshelves, office door and the figures of O’Mara and Craythorne were all lying on their sides and that he, Conway, was rotating in the vertical plane. His panic began to subside a little.
“If you stop me,” said Conway, meaning every word, “I’ll kick you in the face …”
Craythorne’s expression was ludicrous as his face wobbled into sight. O’Mara’s was hidden by the open door of the drug cabinet.
Defensively Conway went on, “This is not simply revulsion to a suddenly introduced alien viewpoint—believe me, Surreshun as a person is more human than most of the taped entities I’ve had recently. But I can’t take this one! I’m not the psychologist around here, but I don’t think any sane person can adapt to a continually recurring death agony.