by James White
Prilicla would not display continuous emotional disturbance simply because it had received news of a promotion. It had borne heavy medical and surgical responsibilities on many previous occasions. Neither would it mind giving orders. True, it had no weight to throw about, but then it always gave its instructions in such a polite and inoffensive way that its subordinates would have died rather than make it feel unhappy by refusing to obey. And the newcomers had not been emoting unpleasantly and neither had Conway.
But suppose Conway would have felt badly if Prilicla had told him the details of its new job? That would explain the empath’s uncharacteristic behavior, because the thought of hurting another being’s feelings would be highly unpleasant for it — especially if the person concerned was a close friend like Conway. And for some reason Prilicla would not, or could not, speak about its new position in front of the newcomers, or perhaps before one of the newcomers.
Maybe it was not its new job which was worrying Prilicla but something it had learned during its meeting with O’Mara, something which concerned Conway himself and which the Cinrusskin was not at liberty to divulge. He checked the time and stood up quickly, excusing himself to the nurses.
The answers — and, he knew from long experience, very likely a whole new set of problems — would be found in the office of the Chief Psychologist.
CHAPTER 3
The inner office of the Chief Psychologist resembled in many respects a medieval torture chamber, and the resemblance was heightened not only by the wide variety of extraterrestrial couches and relaxers fitted with physical restraints, but by the graying, granite-featured Torquemada in Monitor Corps green who presided over it. Major O’Mara indicated a physiologically suitable chair.
“Sit down, Doctor,” he said with a completely uncharacteristic smile. “Relax. You’ve been dashing about in that ambulance ship of yours so much recently that I’ve scarcely seen you. It is high time that we had a good, long talk.”
Conway felt his mouth go dry. This is going to be rough. But what had he done or left undone to merit this sort of treatment?
The other’s features were as unreadable as a lump of rock, but the eyes which were studying him, Conway knew from long experience, opened into a mind so keenly analytical that it gave the Major what amounted to a telepathic faculty. Conway did not speak and neither, for a long moment, did O’Mara.
As Chief Psychologist of the Federation’s largest multienvironment hospital, he was responsible for the mental well-being of a huge medical staff belonging to more than sixty different species. Even though his Monitor Corps rank of major — which had been conferred on him for purely administrative reasons — did not place him high in the hospital’s chain of command, there were no clear limits to his authority. To O’Mara the medical staff were potential patients, and a large part of the Psychology Department’s work was the assignment of the right kind of doctor to a given patient.
Even with the highest degrees of tolerance and mutual respect, dangerous situations could arise among the staff because of ignorance or misunderstanding, or a being could develop xenophobia — in spite of the strict psychological screening every Sector General candidate had to undergo before being accepted for training — to a degree which threatened to affect its professional competence, mental stability, or both. An Earth-human doctor, for example, who had a strong subconscious fear of spiders would not be able to bring to bear on a Cinrusskin patient the proper degree of clinical detachment necessary for its treatment. And if someone like Prilicla were to treat such an Earth-human patient.
A large part of O’Mara’s responsibility was to detect and eradicate such trouble among the medical staff while the other members of his department saw to it that the problems did not arise again — to such an extent that Earth-humans knowledgeable in matters of planetary history referred to the process as the Second Inquisition. According to O’Mara himself, however, the true reason for the high level of mental stability among his charges was that they were all too frightened of him to risk publicly displaying even a minor neurosis.
O’Mara smiled suddenly and said, “I think you are overdoing the respectful silence, Doctor. I would like to talk to you and, contrary to my usual practice, you will be allowed to talk back. Are you happy with ambulance ship duty?”
Normally the Chief Psychologist’s manner was caustic, sarcastic, and abrupt to the point of rudeness. He was fond of saying by way of explanation — O’Mara never apologized for anything — that with his colleagues he could relax and be his usual bad-tempered, obnoxious self while with potential patients he had to display sympathy and understanding. Knowing that, Conway did not feel at all reassured by his uncharacteristically pleasant Chief Psychologist.
“Quite happy,” Conway said guardedly.
“You weren’t happy in the beginning.” O’Mara was watching him intently. “As I remember, Doctor, you thought it beneath the dignity of a Senior Physician to be given medical charge of an ambulance ship. Any problems with the ship’s officers or the medical team? Any personnel changes you might care to suggest?”
“That was before I realized what a very special ambulance ship Rhabwar was,” Conway said, answering the questions in order. “There are no problems. The ship runs smoothly, the Monitor Corps crew are efficient and cooperative, and the members of the medical team are … No, I cannot think of any possible change that should be made in the personnel.”
“I can.” For an instant there was a caustic edge to the Chief Psychologist’s tone, as if the O’Mara that Conway knew and did not particularly love was trying to break through. Then he smiled and went on. “Surely you must have considered the disadvantages, the inconvenience and disruption caused by constantly remaining on ambulance ship standby, and you must have felt a degree of irritation that every operation you perform at Sector General requires that a surgical understudy be prepared in case you were to be suddenly called away. And the ambulance ship duty means that you cannot take part in some of the projects which your seniority would warrant. Research, teaching, making your experience available to others instead of dashing all over the Galaxy on rescue missions and—”
“So the change will be me,” Conway broke in angrily. “But who will be my?“ Prilicla will head Rhabwar’s medical team,” O’Mara replied, “but it accepted only on condition that in so doing it did not cause its friend Conway serious mental distress. It was quite adamant about that, for a Cinrusskin. Even though I told it not to say anything to you until you had been told officially, I expected it to go straight to you with the news.”
“It did. But it only mentioned a promotion, nothing else. I was with a party of new trainees and Prilicla seemed more interested in an empathic polymorph called Danalta. But I could see that something was troubling our little friend.”
“Several things were troubling Prilicla,” O’Mara said. “It knew that when you moved from Rhabwar, it moved up to your job, and that Danalta had already been chosen to fill its vacancy. But the TOBS doesn’t know about this yet, so Prilicla couldn’t tell you the details of its new job, because if Danalta learned about its appointment at second hand it might decide that it was being insulted by being taken for granted. The TOBS are a very able species and justifiably proud of their abilities, and its psych profile indicates that it would certainly take umbrage in a situation like that. But the job it is being offered is physiologically challenging to a polymorph, and I expect Danalta to jump at it.
“Have you any serious objections to these changes, Doctor?” he added.
“No.” Conway wondered why he did not feel angrier and more disappointed at losing a position which was the envy of his colleagues, and which he himself found exciting and professionally demanding. He added sourly, “If the changes are necessary in the first place.”
“They are necessary,” O’Mara said seriously, and went on. “I am not in the habit of paying compliments, as you know. My job here is to shrink heads, not swell them. Neither do I discuss my reasons for taking pa
rticular actions or decisions. But this is not a routine matter.”
The psychologist’s square, stubby hands were spread out on the desk before him, and his face was bent forward, looking at them as he spoke,
“First,” he said, “you were the medical team leader on Rhabwar’s maiden flight. Since then there have been many successful rescue missions, the procedures for the recovery and treatment of survivors have been perfected, and you are leaving a most efficient ambulance ship in which nothing serious can go wrong because of a small change in operating personnel. Prilicla, Murchison, and Naydrad will still be there, remember. And Danalta … Well, with two empaths on the team, one of whom has muscles, can change shape at will, and get into normally inaccessible areas of a wrecked ship, there might even be an improvement in the rescue times.
“Second, there is Prilicla. You know as well as I do that it is one of our best Senior Physicians. But, for purely psychological and evolutionary reasons, it is incredibly timid, cowardly, and utterly lacking in self-assertion. Placing it in a position where it has overall responsibility and authority, at the site of a disaster, will accustom it to the idea of giving orders and making decisions without help from superiors. I realize that its orders may not sound like orders, and that they will be obeyed because nobody will want to hurt its feelings by objecting. But in time it should acquire the habit of command, and during the periods between rescue missions the habit will carry over to its work in the hospital. You agree?”
Conway tried to smile as he said, “I’m glad our little friend isn’t here because my emotional radiation is anything but pleasant. But I agree.”
“Good,” the Major said. He went on briskly. “Third, there is Senior Physician Conway. We should be striving for objectivity in this matter, which is the reason why I am referring to you in the third person. He is a strange character in some ways, and has been since he joined us. A bit of a brat and very sure of himself in the early days, but he showed promise. In spite of this he remained a loner, didn’t mix socially, and seemed to prefer the company of his extraterrestrial colleagues. Psychologically suspect behavior, that, but it conferred distinct advantages in a multispecies hospital where—”
“But Murchison isn’t Conway began.
… An extraterrestrial,” O’Mara finished for him. “I realize that. The processes of senile decay are not so advanced in me that I would fail to notice that she is an Earth-human DBDG female, and then some. But apart from Murchison, your close friends are people like the Kelgian charge nurse Naydrad, the Melfan Senior Edanelt, Prilicla, and, of course, that SNLU dietician with the unpronounceable name from Level Three Oh Two, and even Diagnostician Thornnastor. This is highly significant.”
“What does it signify?” Conway asked, wishing desperately that the other would stop talking and give him time to think.
“You should be able to see that for yourself,” O’Mara said sharply, then went on. “Add to this the fact that Conway has performed excellently over the years, has seen many important and unusual cases through to their successful conclusions, and has not been afraid to take personal responsibility for his professional decisions. And now there are indications that he may be losing his fine edge.
“It isn’t serious as yet,” the psychologist went on quickly before Conway could react. “In fact, neither his colleagues nor the man himself has noticed it, and there is no diminution of professional competence. But I have been studying his case very closely, and it has been apparent to me for some time that Conway is slipping into a rut, and must.
“A rut! In this place?” Conway laughed in spite of himself.
“All things are relative,” O’Mara said irritably. “Let us call it the increasingly routine response to the completely unexpected, if rut is too simple for you. But to resume, it is my considered opinion that this person requires a complete change of assignment and duties. This change should be preceded by the immediate removal from the ambulance ship responsibilities, some minor psychiatric assistance, and a period of mental reappraisal …
“Agonizing reappraisal,” Conway said, laughing again without knowing why. “Reappraisals are always supposed to be agonizing.”
O’Mara studied him intently for a moment, then he exhaled slowly through his nose. Caustically, he said, “I don’t approve of unnecessary suffering, Conway, but if you want to agonize while you’re reappraising, feel free.”
The Major’s normally abrasive manner had returned, Conway noted. Apparently O’Mara no longer regarded him as a patient — which was pleasantly, or rather unpleasantly, reassuring. But his mind was fairly seething as it tried to assimilate and consider all the implications of this sudden and dramatic change in his situation, and he knew that he was temporarily incapable of responding coherently.
“I need time to think about this,” he said. “Naturally,” O’Mara said.
“And I’d like to spend some time on Rhabwar to advise Prilicla on—”
“No!” O’Mara’s open hand slapped the desk top. “Prilicla will have to learn to do the job in its own way, as you had to do, for the best results. You will stay away from the ambulance ship and not speak to the Cinrusskin except to wish it goodbye and good luck. In fact, I want you out of this hospital as quickly as possible. There is a Monitor Corps scoutship on courier duty leaving in thirty hours from now, so you won’t have time for long goodbyes.
“I do not believe,” he went on sardonically, “that there is any way that I can stop you saying a long goodbye to Murchison. Prilicla will already have broken the news of your imminent departure to her, and I can’t think of anyone who could break it more gently, since it has been told what is going to happen to you over the next few months.”
“I wish,” Conway said sourly, “that somebody would tell me.”
“Very well,” the Chief Psychologist said, sitting back in his chair. “You are being assigned for an indefinite period to a planet which, in its most widely used language, is called Goglesk. They have a problem there. I don’t know the details, but you will have plenty of time to brief yourself on it when you arrive, if it interests you. In this case you will not be expected to solve the problem; you will simply rest and—”
O’Mara’s intercom buzzed, and a voice said, “Sorry, sir, but Doctor Fremvessith is here, early for its appointment. Shall I ask it to return later?”
“That’s the PVGJ for the Kelgian tape erasure,” O’Mara replied. “There are problems there. No, ask it to wait and administer sedation if necessary.”
To Conway he went on. “As I was saying, while you are on Goglesk I want you to take things easy and think very carefully about your professional future, and take plenty of time to decide what you want to do or not do at Sector General. To assist the process, I’ll provide some medication designed to enhance the memory and aid dream recall. There are no long-term side effects. If you are going to take a mental inventory, the least I can do is supply a light for the darker recesses.
“But why?” Conway said, and suddenly he was not at all sure that he wanted the answer.
O’Mara was watching him intently, his mouth a tight, expressionless line, but the look in his eyes was sympathetic. He said, “You are beginning to realize the purpose of this meeting at last, Conway. But to save wear and tear on your overworked brain, I’ll make it simple for you.
“The hospital is giving you the chance,” he ended very seriously, “to try for Diagnostician.”
A Diagnostician! …
Many times Conway had had the disquieting experience of having his mind shared with an alien alter ego, as had the majority of the medics at Sector General. He had even, for one relatively short period, had his mind apparently taken over by several extraterrestrials. But after that experience O’Mara had spent several days putting the mental pieces of the original Conway personality together again.
The problem was that although the hospital was equipped to treat every known form of intelligent life, no single person could hold in his or its mind even a
fraction of the physiological data necessary for this purpose. Surgical dexterity was a product of experience and training, but the complete physiological information on a patient had to be furnished by means of an Educator tape, which was simply the brain record of some great medical genius belonging to the same or a similar species to that of the patient being treated.
If an Earth-human doctor had to treat a Kelgian patient, he took a DBLF physiology tape until treatment was completed, after which the tape was erased. The exceptions to this rule were the Senior Physicians of proven stability with teaching duties, and the Diagnosticians.
A Diagnostician was one of the medical elite, a being whose mind was considered stable enough to retain permanently six, seven, and in some cases ten physiology tapes simultaneously. To the datacrammed minds of the Diagnosticians were given the initiation and direction of original research in xenological medicine in addition to the practice and teaching of their considerable art.
But the tapes did not impart only the physiological data — the complete memory and personality of the entity who had possessed that knowledge was transferred as well. In effect a Diagnostician subjected himself or itself voluntarily to an extreme form of multiple schizophrenia. The entities apparently sharing one’s mind could be aggressive, unpleasant individuals — geniuses were rarely charming people — with all sorts of peeves and phobias. Usually these did not become apparent during the course of an operation or treatment. Often the worst times were when the possessor of the tape was relaxing, or sleeping.
Alien nightmares, Conway had been told, were really nightmarish. And alien sexual fantasies or wish-fulfillment dreams were enough to make the person concerned wish, if he was capable of wishing coherently for anything, that he were dead. Conway swallowed.