Space Service

by Andre Norton

  “Go ahead, boy; you’re doing fine,” Bob assured him.

  “Then I just sort of wandered around the ship, looking at the plants and stuff. My hobby is botany, sir,” he added, shyly. “I squatted down on the ground to see if there were any insects like ants or earthworms. But a worm isn’t an insect, is it?” he asked confusedly.

  “The earthworm, Lumbricus terrestris, is a member of the phylum Annelida. Get on with your story,” snapped Schultz.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Slawson meekly; he was, strangely, apparently consoled by this fact of taxonomy. “Well, I didn’t see anything on the ground, so I walked around a little more. I wasn’t more than twenty or twenty-five meters from the ship at any time. Then I saw some flowers that were just budding out and went over to look at them. They weren’t as pretty as our own flowers . . . no odor, either—”

  This remark was immediately seized upon by Edwards. “No odor, eh? So you smelled them? What did these flowers look like?”

  “Yes, sir—I just took a little bitty sniff. And I didn’t look at them very closely, so I can’t tell you much about them. There were seven petals with dentate edges, of a sort of chartreuse color. There were seven stamens with large lobulated anthers. The leaves were lanceolate, with stipules.”

  Schultz looked at Edwards. “So he didn’t look at them closely, says he. What kind of a botanical lecture would he have given us if he had looked at them?”

  “Let him alone, Schultz,” said Bob. “He’s interested, so he can’t help being observant. What else did you do, Slawson?”

  “That’s all, sir. I was sort of cold, so I thought I’d come back to the ship and get a jacket and see if one of the boys wanted to go out for a walk. When I opened my locker I noticed the color of my skin, so I reported to you immediately.”

  Bob looked at Schultz, inquiringly. “Looks like we have our clue, doesn’t it? Let’s go down to the lab and go to work. Come on, Slawson.”

  The three men made their way to the laboratory, where they found Thomas, the pathologist. This was to be expected—he was never far or long away from his beloved, immaculate laboratory. As the three entered he was looking through a microscope.

  “Gentlemen,” he greeted them in his precise way. “When I heard the order to seal ship I thought you might be suspicious of the air, so I began to do another check. What do you suspect?”

  Instead of answering, Bob merely stepped from in front of Slawson, made that casual gesture which means, “Look what we have here!”

  Thomas’ face was a study in pleasure—the pleasure of being presented with a new, interesting problem. “Well!” he said. “Most unusual. And you think that this coloration comes from the air?” Bob shrugged. “All we know is that he apparently got it outside. It might be from a flower—but we can’t afford to take any chances.” He smiled wryly. “Seems as how Minotaur is not the safe, peaceful planet we thought.”

  “What did you find in the air, Dave?” Schultz asked the pathologist.

  “I found a few granules of what might be pollen, but very few, not over three per cubic meter. It seems rather doubtful that we could get a reaction like this from airborne pollen,” he answered. “But let’s see what we can find out about Slawson. Any particular tests that you have in mind?”

  Bob pursed his lips thoughtfully. “We’d better have the usual blood count, and urinalysis. And . . . let’s see . . . you have a spectroscope, as I recall—we’d better see what that shows. And I’d better get Livingston here to do a skin biopsy so we can tell where the color is.” He stepped to the intercom and called the surgeon.

  By the time Livingston arrived Thomas and his efficient assistants had the specimens and were beginning the analysis. Slawson meekly obeyed the order to get undressed and lay down on the operating table, prepared to submit himself to the tender mercies of the surgeon.

  “Do you want this skin specimen from any particular site?” Jack asked.

  Bob looked at the recumbent Slawson again. “Roll over, please,” he asked. From scalp to toes, front and back the crewman was blue, definitely and unequivocally blue. His hair and nails weren’t colored; his pupils looked black, but all the rest was blue, blue, blue.

  “Guess it doesn’t make any difference, Jack. Snatch a piece of hide from wherever your little fiendish heart desires.”

  “O.K.—we’ll take it off the abdomen, then.” Moving with the rapid dexterity which comes from long practice, Livingston soon had an area of the skin anaesthetized, a section of the skin snipped out, the wound closed and the specimen handed to a technician. He turned from the table and bumped into Mandel, who had quietly wandered in to see what was going on.

  “What have we here?” he asked.

  “You figure it out, chum,” the surgeon replied. “Let’s see what a hot-shot diagnostician you can be.”

  “Hm-m-m, the differential diagnosis of a blue skin. Let me think.” As he looked at Slawson, who was enjoying all this attention, he whistled softly between his teeth.

  Bob pricked up his ears at the tune. “What’s that you’re whistling, Irv?”

  The psychiatrist smiled. “That’s an old, old song—one popular in the twentieth century. It was called ‘Am I Blue.’ ” He looked at Slawson again and said, “Well, there are several things we’d have to consider here. There’s the possibility of methemoglobinemia or sulfhemoglobinemia. It might be just a cyanosis, but he wouldn’t be as comfortable as he is, if that were the case. And outside of that, the pixies might have given him some Trypan blue intravenously.”

  By this time Kelly had completed his duties with the ship and was lounging in the doorway of the lab. He shook his head. “That jargon you grave-robbers talk beats me. And what, if my ignorance isn’t hanging out, could Trypan blue be?”

  “Trypan blue? That’s one of the so-called vital dyes which used to be used in research. You could inject it intravenously or intraperitoneally into a rat and he’d turn a beautiful blue. It’s not effective by mouth, though, so Slawson couldn’t have drunk it. You’re sure, Slawson, that you didn’t turn blue just to annoy us doctors?” Slawson grinned back at the little psychiatrist. “No, sir!”

  Thomas had been listening to this little by-play. “We don’t have any Trypan blue aboard, anyway. The closest thing we have to it is methylene blue—and that stains only one of the fluids.”

  Schultz sighed. “How well I know that. I took some once in my first year in medical school.”

  His comment was interrupted by a thump and crash. They turned around to see Slawson lying on the floor. He had apparently tried to sit up on the edge of the table and had fallen over in a dead faint.

  Bob reached him first. His practiced fingers found the radial pulse. “Wow! His heart is going better than one forty! We’d better get some oxygen into him immediately.”

  In less time than it takes to tell it, Slawson was in bed in the sick bay, being given oxygen through a mask.

  Bob checked the patient’s pulse again. “It’s coming down a little now. He must have had a terrific anoxemia; we couldn’t see it because of his color. I wish that he had complained a little more—but all he said was that he was a little short of breath.” He turned from the bed to speak to the man on duty. “Keep a close eye on him and if there’s any change, call me immediately. If you can’t reach me, call Dr. Schultz.”

  Bob made his way back to the laboratory, deeply immersed in his thoughts. What to do about Slawson? Was it necessary to return to all the precautions taken when they first landed? Was he going to get the same disease? Why hadn’t the others turned blue? And what would the outcome be? His disciplined mind abruptly cut off these unproductive thoughts. He had a job to do; he didn’t know what his results would be, but he could at least do something.

  He entered the lab; Thomas and his assistants were still busy with the various specimens.

  “Has he been cross-matched for transfusion?” Bob asked.

  The pathologist pointed to a 500 cc. flask of blood standing in a pan
of warm water. “That’s compatible, if you want to use it,” he answered.

  “Guess we’d better,” Edwards mused. “His blood certainly isn’t carrying enough oxygen; maybe this will help. Give it to him as soon as you can, will you? Mr. Kelly,” he said—the navy man entered silently, carrying a sheet of paper—“what’s this?”

  “We got our answer from Earth. You’ll love it.”

  Tom took the message.

  BUIPSH. 0820451735. MERCY MINOTAUR CONGRATS SOLVING PROBLEM EXPONE. FRING EXFTHREE BLASTF 0820451700 DUE MINOTAUR 1IXX45XXXX WELDONE STARK COMBUIPSH

  Edwards gave an exaggerated shudder and handed the message back to Kelly. “The way you navy boys can louse up the language. Translate it, please—I’m afraid I understand what it means.”

  “O.K. stupe. ‘Bureau of Interplanetary Ships; August 20, 2245; message sent at 1735 to Ship Mercy on Planet Minotaur. Congratulations on solving the problem of Expedition I. For your information and guidance Expedition III blasted off today at 1700 and is due on Minotaur the latter part of November—no specified time. Well done, our good and faithful servants.’ Signed by Bottle Beak Stark, Commander of the Bureau of Interplanetary Ships.”

  “That dumb jerk!” said Schultz. “Does he think that this planet is safe just because we’ve solved one problem? Can’t he realize what an unnecessary risk those guys are taking?” He ignored the fact that he was in much greater danger than those he was worrying about; after all, exposure to exotic disease was in line of duty for him. “Bob, shouldn’t we radio Stark to call them back?”

  Bob turned to Kelly. “We can’t do that, can we?”

  “You’re right,” he answered. “They’d be way outside the Heaviside layer by now and they couldn’t either receive or transmit unless the rockets were shut off. Too much ionization from the blast. We’ll just have to wait until they hit atmosphere here and warn them off.”

  “No, by God,” said Bob grimly, “we’ll just have to get this mess cleaned up before they get here—and hope that we don’t run into any more in the meantime. How’re we doing, Davey? Have you found out what causes blue boys?”

  “I think we’re on the track,” replied Thomas. “The oxygen-combining power is way down, though not totally absent. There are definite changes in the absorption spectrum of the hemoglobin. There is the typical pattern of methemoglobin plus a band near line F. I’d say . . . now, mind you, this is only a guess . . . that Slawson had absorbed a blue chromogen with an unstable radical which splits off to cause methemoglobinemia.”

  “Wow,” said Tom. “And you docs were giving the navy hell for talking technicalese. How about you translating now?”

  “Dr. Schultz—will you teach the kindergarten while I look through the spectroscope?” requested Bob, in his most formal manner.

  “Gladly, my dear Dr. Edwards,” replied Schultz, equally formally. “Now pay attention, you nauseating lump of ignorance. Hemoglobin is a complex combination of iron and protein which acts as the oxygen carrier of the blood. In the presence of oxygen it absorbs it to form oxyhemoglobin; in the absence of oxygen it gives up the oxygen to form reduced hemoglobin. The oxygen attaches or detaches itself easily. Is that clear so far?”

  Kelly inclined his head, reverently. “Your words of wisdom are a blessing to my ears.”

  “I’m glad you appreciate me. To continue: certain chemicals, including the nitrites, acetanilid and nitrobenzene, cause the formation of a stable hemoglobin compound called methemoglobin. When this happens, the blood no longer can carry oxygen.”

  “So that’s it,” said Tom. “In other words, the guy is actually smothering, even though he can still breathe.”

  “A most astute observation, my dear Kelly,” said Schultz, condescendingly. “To continue; methemoglobin makes the blood turn a brownish-red. The patient himself gets a dusky blue look, due to the lack of oxygen. And then when you get the further addition of another color, which Death-House Davey has not yet identified, then you get a lovely color like Slawson did.”

  Tom shook his head. “Thank you, no. I’ll stick to the same old flesh color—it sort of runs in the Kelly family. Seriously, Schultzie, what about Slawson’s chances? Is this going to be—serious?” You could see that Kelly meant, but didn’t have the nerve to say, “fatal.” Schultz shrugged. “No one can say, Tommy. We’re going to do our best to see that it isn’t, of course. But we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Edwards interrupted. “Tom, would you send one of the crewmen out to get some of those flowers that Slawson was sniffing on?”

  “O.K., Bob. Should he wear a spacesuit or can he go out raw?”

  “I imagine if he just wore a respirator and put the flowers in a tightly closed container he’d be all right. Isn’t that what you’d say, Thomas?” he appealed to the pathologist, who nodded his assent.

  While Kelly left on this errand, Tom turned again to Livingston. “Jack, would you see that he gets that blood? And observe him closely to see how he responds. Better get another blood specimen before you pull the needle out. And now, Davey, let’s see what we can do to identify this color.”

  Schultz and Mandel struck up one of those desultory medical conversations—a mixture of anecdotes about interesting cases, statements of opinion and defense of those opinions. Thomas and Edwards worked diligently, goldberging a filtration apparatus for separation of the color from the blood. They were interrupted, after a while, by the return of the crew member who had been sent out for the flowers.

  “Well, did you get them?” asked Bob.

  “Sir, I went out, but I didn’t think I ought to try to get them just then. I wasn’t sure about those animals.”

  “Animals!” The four doctors uttered the words simultaneously. They looked at each other, momentarily baffled and indecisive about this new and unexpected exigency.

  Edwards made his mind up first. “Davey, hold the fort; we won’t be gone long. The rest of us will go up to the dome and get a look at these beasties.”

  They hurriedly made their way to the observation dome at the top of the ship, adding Kelly to their number as they passed down the corridors. They entered the observation room, with Tom closing the airtight door carefully. The hull plates were open, and the sunlight streamed in, warmly. It took but a moment to raise the air pressure in the room and to inflate the elastic, transparent bubblelike dome. There were enough observation chairs for all of them, so the four of them were quickly elevated to the top of the dome. They each had a pair of binoculars and eagerly scanned the surrounding terrain.

  “Do you see anything?”

  “No, that vegetation is too dense.”

  And it was dense. When they first landed on this little plateau, it was quite barren; but now, since the terrific storm of a few days ago, the vegetation had sprung up unbelievably fast. The ground as far as they could see was a lush green. The leaves of the various plants danced adagio in the gentle breeze. It was almost as if they could see them grow, they seemed so full of fresh, new life. Some of the plants, which had leaves like a giant dandelion and a shoot like a huge asparagus stalk, were now shoulder high. It was from a clump of these that the first-seen Minotauran emerged.

  “Look!! Look!! There’s one . . . no, two . . . of them now!” The navy man’s keen eyes had spotted them first. “Holy dying Dinah! Aren’t they a couple of beauties?”

  Picture a four-legged animal with a body the same size as a St. Bernard dog, with disproportionately short, bowed legs like a dachshund. Give him a hairless, wrinkled gray-green skin, and a long, graceful neck like a camel, emerging from powerful shoulders. Put a head with long jaws on that neck; large yellow eyes, no external ears and a placid expression, for features. And finally, on the anterior surface of the long neck, imagine a rugose, lobulated mass of flesh reminiscent of the wattles of a turkey. There you will have, at first glance, the dominant inhabitant of the planet Minotaur.

  “Wow—I wonder if they’re as peaceful as they look. Look at those jaws! Mandel, you’re our biol
ogist—d’you think they’re carnivorous?”

  “No, Bob, I wouldn’t say so,” Irv answered, judiciously. “On Earth most of the carnivores, with the exception of the dog family, tend to be short jawed. Your long-jaws, like the horse and cow, are usually vegetarians.”

  As if to confirm this observation, one of the Minotaurans sat down on his haunches, reached up with his forelimbs and began pulling leaves off the plant and stuffing them in his capacious mouth. He sat there, quietly and contemplatively, giving himself over to the joys of mastication.

  “Look at the color changes in that gadget on his neck! What do you suppose that’s for?” asked Schultz.

  And the colors were changing; various shades of red were playing over the surface. A broad, horizontal band of scarlet, followed by a light pink, would travel down the length of the colored area. This would be replaced by a vermilion, which would seem to pulsate, gently, alternately deepening and lightening in shade.

  “Hm-m-m,” said Mandel, slowly. “That’s a puzzler. In most animals a colored organ is usually a sex character. The comb and wattles of the rooster, and the crest of those Venusian marsupials are examples. But those are pretty static—they change with the season, and don’t flicker like a sign-painter’s nightmare. Look . . . look there!”

  The seated animal had turned to face the other one, who had come up on it from behind. And now the colors did start to appear. Bands of purple, splotches of green, tremulous irregular areas of yellow, tumbled across and up and down the necks of those weird beasts for several seconds. Then, with one accord, the two animals faced the ship and began walking slowly toward it.