Prostho Plus

by Piers Anthony

  But the problem of anaesthesia remained. Massive excavation would be required, and no patient could sit still for that without a deadened jaw. He studied the situation, perplexed, noting that the crewman had put away the prism.

  The captain produced a small jar of greenish ointment. It seemed that this contingency had been anticipated. These creatures were not stupid.

  Dillingham touched his finger to the substance. There was a slight prickly sensation, but nothing else. The captain gestured to his mouth.

  Dillingham scooped out a fingerful and smeared it carefully along the gingival surfaces surrounding the affected teeth. The colour darkened.

  The captain closed his mouth. "How do they chew?" Miss Galland inquired, as though this were a routine operation. She had assumed her role of assistant naturally.

  He shrugged. "The moment they take their eyes off you, slip away. We can't be sure of their motives."

  She nodded as the captain reopened his mouth. "I think they're doing just what we would do, if we had trouble on some other world."

  Dillingham refrained from inquiring just what type of literature she read during her off hours. He probed the raw surface that had been so sensitive before. No reaction.

  So far, so good. He felt professional envy for the simplicity of the alien anaesthetic. Now that he was committed to the job, he would complete it as competently as he could. His ethical code had been bent by the aliens but not broken.

  It was a full-scale challenge. He would have to replace the missing and damaged portions of the teeth with onlays, duplicating in gold as precisely as he could the planes and angles witnessed in the healthy set. While it would have helped immensely to know the rationale of this strange jaw, it was not essential. How many centuries had dentists operated by hit or miss, replacing losses with wooden teeth and faithfully duplicating malocclusals and irregularities? The best he could hope for would be fifty per cent efficiency—in whatever context it applied—yet if this stood up until the patient returned to his own world, it sufficed. There was no perfection.

  Would a gold alloy react unfavourably with the alien system? He had to chance it. Gold was the best medium he had to work with, and another metal would be less effective and more risky. A good cobalt chromium alloy would be cheaper, but for really delicate work there was no substitute for gold.

  He drilled and polished, adjusting to the old internal convolutions, while Miss Galland kept the water spray and vacuum in play. He shaped the healthy base of each tooth into a curve that offered the best foundation. He bored a deep hole into each for insertion of the stabilizing platinum-iridium pins. He made a hydrocolloid impression of the entire lower jaw, since the better part of the reconstruction would have to take place in the laboratory.

  Both aliens started when he used the hydrocolloid, then relaxed uneasily. Evidently his prosthodontic technique differed from that of their own world.

  "Sorry," he said, as much to himself as to them. "Since I am not familiar with your methods, I am constrained to rely upon my own. I can't rebuild a tooth by guesswork."

  "That's telling them," Miss Galland agreed.

  He needed a model of both sides of the jaw because it was bilaterally symmetrical. A mirror-image reproduction of the right side might reasonably do for the left. He ignored the upper jaw. He knew nothing of the proper interaction of these surfaces, so the opposing pattern could only confuse him. He didn't want human preconceptions to distort the alien pattern.

  But his curiosity about the way those incredible teeth functioned was hard to suppress.

  He worked loose the hardened cast. He applied a temporary layer of amalgam, so that the jaw would not be sensitive when the anaesthetic wore off. Then he had to explain to the aliens by means of pantomime that this was not the end product of his endeavours.

  Miss Galland brought a plaster model of human dentures, and he pointed to the cut-away teeth and lifted out the mock reconstructions, then gestured towards the laboratory. After several repetitions the captain seemed to get the idea. Dillingham led the way, with captain, Miss Galland and crewman following in that order. The major portion of the job was coming up.

  Patients seldom saw the lab. Few of them were aware of the enormous and precise labours that went into the simplest inlay, onlay or crown. This time, at least, he would have an attentive audience for his prosthodontic art.

  Dillingham rinsed the impression immediately and immersed it in a two per cent solution of potassium sulphate while Miss Galland set up the equipment. There wasn't much else she could do, because special skill was required for the early stages.

  The captain watched the routine with what Dillingham was sure was amazement. The aliens knew no more about the realities of dentistry than local people did! But what had they expected? Surely the techniques of North Nebula—to invent a home for the visitors—had points of similarity. Physical laws applied rigorously, whatever the language or culture.

  He filled the impression with a commercial stone preparation, vibrated out the bubbles, and inserted the dowels and loops for individual handling of the teeth. While the die set, he simulated the remaining steps for the captain: the intricate wax mock-up of the onlay pattern for each tooth; the attachment of the sprue, so that the pattern and subsequent cast could be handled effectively; the investment, or formation of a durable impression around the wax pattern; burnout, to free the investment of wax and leave a clear mould for the liquid metal; casting (he didn't even try to explain about the problems of expansion and contraction of gold and cast): and finally the pickling, finishing and polishing of each unit.

  The captain's eyes seemed glazed, though the procedures were elementary. Here in the lab Dillingham was master, whatever the larger situation.

  At last he manipulated the hands of the wall clock to show how many hours would be required for all this. He assumed that if the Nebulites knew enough about Earth to locate a specialist when they needed one, they should have mastered local timekeeping conventions.

  The captain was not happy. Had he thought that an onlay was the work of a few minutes? Probably, like most patients, he hadn't thought about it at all. Everybody knew dentists spaced out the time between appointments merely to boost their exorbitant prices! Ha (brother!) ha!

  The captain produced what appeared to be a hard plastic rod and chewed it meditatively on his good side. Dillingham was afraid at first that it was another weapon, but saw that it was not. Well, every species doubtless had its vices and mannerisms, and this was certainly better than chewing tobacco or gobbling candy.

  The patient passed the rod to the crewman, who glanced at it with interest but did not choose to add any toothmarks of his own. No conversation passed between them, but abruptly the captain left. The crewman took a seat and kept the prism ready.

  Evidently they did not intend to leave the captives to their own devices while the onlay was in preparation.

  "They don't miss any bets," Miss Galland said ruefully.

  Dillingham shrugged and bent to his work. It seemed that the surest way to get rid of the visitors was to complete the operation. He sawed his die into four separate segments, one for each damaged tooth, and plunged into the complex portion of the job. The wax he applied had to be shaped into the exact pattern of the desired cast. This, not the original tooth, was the actual model. The die determined the juncture with the living tooth, but the artistry lay in sculpting the upper surface of the wax into a serviceable and aesthetic duplicate of the healthy original.

  He set the cruder plaster cast of the captain's jaw before him and began the most difficult construction of his career. It was not an image he had to make, but a mirror image, and his reflexes were hardly geared to it. Each of the four patterns would take several hours.

  Night fell as he completed the second pattern. A new alien came to replace the crewman, but there was no chance to escape. They chewed sociably on rods, exchanged them, and parted.

  "Dr. Dillingham!" Miss Galland exclaimed. "That's how they tal
k! They make marks like that old-wedge-writing."

  It made sense. "Cuneiform," he agreed. That explained what the teeth were for! But the revelation, while satisfying intellectually, didn't help them to escape. The new guard was as vigilant as the first.

  Night passed. Miss Galland slept on the emergency cot while Dillingham kept working. They both knew that help was unlikely to come, because the aliens had shown up on Friday and there would be no appointments for the weekend. Dillingham lived alone, and Miss Galland's room-mate happened to be on vacation. The captain had been quite lucky.

  Something else occurred to him. "Miss Galland!" She sat up sleepily. "Since these creatures don't use sound to talk with, they probably don't associate it with communication at all!"

  "Have you stayed up all night, Doctor?" she inquired solicitously, "You must be tired."

  "Listen to me! We can plan our escape, and they won't realize what we're doing. If I can distract the guard's attention—"

  She came alive. "Now I follow you. We could have telephoned long ago, if... but how can we get him to—"

  He explained. They worked it out in detail while he poured thick jel around the wax and vibrated the cup. She slowly opened the windows, then set up a chair in front of one and sat down. One agile flip could tumble her into the back lot—if the guard were off-guard.

  The work continued. The guards changed again, and the new one did not realize that the window was open. Dillingham poured melted gold into the inverted hollows of the final mould. The alien's attention was taken up by the sight of the hot metal; he knew that was dangerous.

  "Now," Dillingham cried, as he plunged the hot cast into cold water. Steam puffed up, bringing the guard to his feet—and Miss Galland was gone.

  Dillingham finished with a flourish. "How's that for a set of castings!" he cried. "Not to mention a slick escape," he added as the guard turned to discover what had happened. "The police will be here within half an hour."

  The alien had been tricked, but he was no fool. He wasted no time in a futile chase after the girl. He pointed the prism at Dillingham, fired one warning beam that blasted the wall beside him, and gestured towards the door.

  Two blocks away they came to an overgrown lot. Hidden within the thick brush was a shining metal cylinder, large enough to hold several men.

  "Now wait a minute!" Dillingham exclaimed as a port swung open. But already he was coming to understand that the clever alien captain had anticipated this situation also, and had come prepared.

  The cooling onlays burned his hand. Perhaps the aliens had never intended to let the Earth-dentist go. If they needed help once, why not again, during the long voyage in space? He had demonstrated his proficiency, and by his trick to free Miss Galland he had forfeited any claim to mercy they might have entertained. The captain meant to have his restorations, and the job would be finished even if it had to be done en route to—

  The where? The North Nebula?

  Dr. Dillingham, Earth's first spacefaring prosthodontist, was about to find out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Enen—for Dr. Dillingham preferred the acronym to "North Nebula Humanoid Species"—rushed up and chewed out a message-stick with machine-like dispatch. He handed it to Dillingham and stood by anxiously.

  This was an alien world, and he was alone among aliens, but this was his laboratory. He was master, in his restricted fashion, and the Enens treated him with flattering deference. In fact he felt more like king than captive.

  He popped the stick into the hopper of the transcoder. "Emergency," the little speaker said. "Only you can handle this, Doctor!"

  "You'll have to be more specific, Holmes," he said, and watched the transcoder type this on to another stick. Since the Enens had no spoken language, and he had not learned to decipher their tooth-dents visually, the transcoder was the vital link in communication.

  The names he applied to the Enens were facetious. These galactics had no names in their own language, and comprehended his humour in this regard no more than had his patients on distant Earth. But at least they were industrious folk, and very clever at physical science. It was surprising that they were so backward in dentistry.

  The Enen read the translation and put it between his teeth for a hurried footnote. It was amazing, Dillingham thought, how effectively they could flex their jaws for minute variations in depth and slant. Compared to this, the human jaw was a clumsy portcullis.

  The message went back through the machine. "It's a big toothache that no one can cure. You must come."

  "Oh, come now, Watson," Dillingham said, deeply flattered. "I've been training your dentists for several months now, and they're experienced and intelligent specialists. They know their maxillaries from their mandibulars. As a matter of fact, some of them are a good deal more adept now than I, except in the specific area of metallic restorations. Surely—"

  But the Enen grabbed the stick before any more could be imprinted by the machine's chattering jaws. "Doctor—this is an alien. It's the son of a high muck-a-muck of Gleep." The terms, of course, were the ones he had programmed to indicate any ruling dignitary of any other planet. He wondered whether he would be well advised to substitute more serious designations before someone caught on. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would see about it. "You, Doctor, are our only practising exodontist."

  Ah—now it was coming clear. He was a dentist from a far planet, ergo he must know all about off-world dentition. The Enen's naďve faith was touching. Well, if this were a job they could not handle, he could at least take a look at it. The "alien" could hardly have stranger dentition than the Enens had themselves, and success might represent a handsome credit towards his eventual freedom. It would certainly be more challenging than drilling his afternoon class in Applications of Supercolloid.

  "I'm pretty busy with that new group of trainees..." he said. This was merely a dodge to elicit more information, since the Enens tended to omit important details. Their notions of importance differed here and there from his own.

  "The muck-a-muck has offered fifty pounds of frumpstiggle for this one service," the Enen replied.

  Dillingham whistled, and the transcoder dutifully printed the translation. Frumpstiggle was neither money nor merchandise. He had never been able to pin down exactly what it was, but for convenience he thought of it as worth its exact weight in gold: $35 per ounce, $560 per pound. The Enens did not employ money as such, but their avid barter for frumpstiggle seemed roughly equivalent. His commission on fifty pounds would amount to a handsome dividend, and would bring his return to Earth that much closer.

  "Very well, Holmes. Bring in the patient."

  The Enen became agitated. "The high muck-a-muck's family can't leave the planet. You must go to Gleep."

  He had half expected something of this sort. The Enens gallivanted from planet to planet and system to system with dismaying nonchalance. Dillingham had not yet become accustomed to the several ways in which they far excelled Earth technology, nor to the abrupt manner of their transactions. True, he owed his presence here to an oral injury of one of their space captains, who had simply walked into the nearest dental office for service, liked what he found, and brought the dentist home. But there was a difference between knowing and accepting.

  Dillingham was in effect the property of the Enens—he who had dreamed only of conventional retirement in Florida. He was no intrepid spaceman, no seeker of fortune, and would never have chosen such unsettling galactic intercourse. But now that the choice had been made for him—

  "I'll pack my bag," he said.

  Gleep turned out to be a water world. The ship splashed down beside a floating way station, and they were transferred to a tank-like amphibian vehicle. It rolled into the tossing ocean and paddled along somewhat below the surface.

  Dillingham had read somewhere that intelligent life could not evolve in water, because of the inhibiting effect of the liquid medium upon the motion of specialized appendages. Certainly the fish of Earth had never amounted to much.r />
  How could primitive swimmers hope to engage in interstellar commerce?

  Evidently that particular theory was erroneous, elsewhere in the galaxy. Still, he wondered just how the Gleeps had circumvented the rapid-motion barrier. Did they live in domes under the ocean?

  He hoped the patient would not prove to be too alien. Presumably it had teeth—but that might be the least of the problems. Fortunately he could draw on whatever knowledge the Enens had, and he had also made sure to bring along a second transcoder keyed to Gleep. It was awkward to carry two machines, but too much could be lost in retranslation if he had to get the Gleep complaints relayed through the Enens.

  A monstrous fish-shape loomed beyond the porthole. The thing spied the sub, advanced, and oped a cavernous maw. "Look out!" Dillingham yelled.

  The Enen glanced indifferently at the message-stick and chomped a casual reply. "Everything is in order, Doctor."

  "But a leviathan is about to engulf us!"

  "Naturally. That's a Gleep."

  Dillingham stared out, stunned. No wonder the citizens couldn't leave the planet! It was a matter of physics, not social convention.

  The vessel was already inside the colossal mouth, and the jaws were closing. "You—you mean this is the patient?" But he already had his answer. Damn those little details the Enens forgot to mention. A whale!

  The mouth was shut now and the headlight of the sub revealed encompassing mountains of flexing flesh. The treads touched land—probably the tongue—and took hold. A minute's climb brought them into a great domed air chamber.

  They halted beside what reminded him of the white cliffs of Dover. The hatch sprang open and the Enens piled out.

  None of them seemed concerned about the possibility that the creature might involuntarily swallow, so Dillingham put that notion as far from his mind as he was able.

  "This is the tooth," the Enen's message said. The driver consulted a map and pointed to a solid marble boulder.