Prostho Plus

by Piers Anthony

  The administrators came largely from the University of Administration, dental division, situated on another planet, and they wielded enormous power. The University President was the virtual dictator of the planet, and his pronouncements had the force of law in dental matters throughout the galaxy. Indeed, Dillingham thought as he absorbed the information, if there were any organization that approached galactic overlordship, it would be the Association of University Presidents. AUP had the authority and the power to quarantine any world found guilty of wilful malpractice in any of the established fields, and since any quarantine covered all fields, it was devastating. An abstract was run showing the consequence of the last absolute quarantine: within a year that world had collapsed in anarchy. What followed that was not at all pretty.

  Dillingham saw that the level of skill engendered by University training did indeed transcend any ordinary practice. No one on Earth had any inkling of the techniques considered commonplace here. His imagination was saturated with the marvel of it all. His dream of knowledge for the sake of knowledge was a futile one; such training was far too valuable to be reserved for the satisfaction of the individual. No wonder graduates became public servants! The investment was far less monetary than cultural and technological, for the sponsoring planet.

  His room-mates were largely unimpressed. "Everyone knows the universities wield galactic power," Treetrunk said. "This is only one school of many, and hardly the most important. Take Finance U, now—"

  "Or Transportation U," Pincushion added. "Every space ship, every stellar conveyor, designed and operated by graduates of—"

  "Or Communication," Anteater said. "Comm U has several campuses, even, and they're not dinky little planets like this one, either. Civilization is impossible without communications. What's a few bad teeth, compared to that?"

  Dillingham was shocked. "But all of you are dentists. How can you take such tremendous knowledge and responsibility so casually?"

  "Oh, come now," Anteater said. "The technology of dentistry hasn't changed in millennia. It's a staid, dated institution. Why get excited?"

  "No point in letting ideology go to our heads," Treetrunk agreed. "I'm here because this training will set me up for life back home. I won't have to set up a practice at all; I'll be a consultant. It's the best training in the galaxy—we all know that—but we must try to keep it in perspective."

  The others signified agreement. Dillingham saw that he was a minority of one. All the others were interested in the education not for its own sake but for the monetary and prestigious benefits they could derive from a degree.

  And all of them had much higher probabilities of admission than he. Was he wrong?

  Next day they faced a battery of field tests. Dillingham had to use the operatory equipment to perform specified tasks: excavation, polishing, placement of amalgam, measurement, manufacture of assorted impressions—on a number of familiar and unfamiliar jaws. He had to diagnose and prescribe. He had to demonstrate facility in all phases of laboratory work—facility he now felt woefully deficient in. The equipment was versatile, and he had no particular difficulty adjusting to it, but it was so well made and precise that he was certain his own abilities fell far short of those for whom it was intended.

  The early exercises were routine, and he was able to do them easily in the time recommended. Gradually, however, they became more difficult, and he had to concentrate as never before to accomplish the assignments at all, let alone on schedule. There were several jaws so alien that he could not determine their modes of action, and had to pass them by even though the treatment seemed simple enough. This was because he remembered his recent experiences with galactic dentition, and the unsuspected mechanisms of seemingly ordinary teeth, and so refused to perform repairs even on a dummy jaw that might be more harmful than no repair at all.

  During the rest breaks he chatted with his companions, all in neighbouring operatories, and learned to his dismay that none of them were having difficulties. "How can you be sure of the proper occlusal on #17?" he asked Treetrunk. "There was no upper mandible present for comparison."

  "That was an Oopoo jaw," Treetrunk rustled negligently. "Oopoos have no uppers. There's just a bony plate, perfectly regular. Didn't you know that?"

  "You recognize all the types of jaw in the galaxy?" Dillingham asked, half jokingly,

  "Certainly. I have read at least one text on the dentures of every accredited species. We Treetrunks never forget."

  Eidetic memory! How could a mere man compete with a creature who was able to peruse a million or more texts, and retain every detail of each? He understood more plainly why his probability of admittance was so low. Perhaps even that figure was unrealistically high!

  "What was #36, the last one?" Pincushion inquired. "I didn't recognize it, and I thought I knew them all."

  Treetrunk wilted slightly. "I never saw that one before," he admitted. "It must have been extragalactic, or a theoretic simulacrum designed to test our extrapolation."

  "The work was obvious, however," Anteater observed. "I polished it off in four seconds."

  "Four seconds!" All the other were amazed.

  "Well, we are adapted for this sort of routine," Anteater said patronizingly. "Our burrs are built in, and all the rest of it. My main delay is generally in diagnosis. But #36 was a straightforward labial cavity requiring a plastoid substructure and metallic overlay, heated to 540 degrees Centigrade for thirty-seven microseconds."

  "Thirty-nine microseconds," Treetrunk corrected him, a shade smugly. "You forgot to allow for the red-shift in the overhead beam. But that's still remarkable time."

  "I employed my natural illumination, naturally," Anteater said, just as smugly. He flashed a yellow light from his snout.

  "No distortion there. But I believe my alloy differs slightly from what is considered standard, which may account for the discrepancy. Your point is well taken, nevertheless. I trust none of the others forgot that adjustment?"

  The Electrolyte settled an inch. "I did," he confessed.

  Dillingham was too stunned to be despondent. Had all of them diagnosed #36 so readily, and were they all so perceptive as to be automatically aware of the wavelength of a particular beam of light? Or were such readings available through the equipment, that he didn't know about, and wouldn't be competent to use if he did know? He had pondered that jaw for the full time allotted and finally given it up untouched. True, the cavity had appeared to be perfectly straightforward, but it was too clean to ring true. Could—

  The buzzer sounded for the final session and they dispersed to their several compartments.

  Dillingham was contemplating #41 with mounting frustration when he heard Treetrunk, via the translator extension, call to Anteater. "I can't seem to get this S-curve excavation right," he complained. "Would you lend me your snout?"

  A joke, of course, Dillingham thought. Discussion of cases after they were finished was one thing, but consultation during the exam itself—!

  "Certainly," Anteater replied. He trotted past Dillingham's unit and entered Treetrunk's operatory. There was the muted beep of his high-speed proboscis drill. "You people confined to manufactured tools labour under such a dreadful disadvantage," he remarked. "It's a wonder you can qualify at all!"

  "Hmph," Treetrunk replied good-naturedly... and later returned the favour by providing a spot diagnosis based on his memory of an obscure chapter of an ancient text, to settle a case that had Anteater in doubt. "It isn't as though we're competing against each other," he said. "Every point counts!"

  Dillingham ploughed away, upset. Of course there had been nothing in the posted regulations specifically forbidding such procedure, but he had taken it as implied. Even if galactic ethics differed from his own in this respect, he couldn't see his way clear to draw on any knowledge or skill other than his own. Not in this situation.

  Meanwhile, #41 was a different kind of problem. The directive, instead of saying "Do what is necessary", as it had for the #36 they had disc
ussed during the break, was specific. "Create an appropriate mesiocclusodistal metal-alloy inlay for the afflicted fifth molar in this humanoid jaw."

  This was perfectly feasible. Despite its oddities as judged by Earthly standards, it was humanoid and therefore roughly familiar to him. Men did not have more than three molars in a row, but other species did. He had by this time mastered the sophisticated equipment well enough to do the job in a fraction of the time he had required on Earth. He could have the inlay shaped and cast within the time limit.

  The trouble was, his experience and observation indicated that the specified reconstruction was not proper in this case. It would require the removal of far more healthy dentin than was necessary, for one thing. In addition, there was evidence of persistent inflammation in the gingival tissue that could herald periodontal disease.

  He finally disobeyed the instructions and placed a temporary filling. He hoped he would be given the opportunity to explain his action, though he was afraid he had already failed the exam. There was just too much to do, he knew too little, and the competition was too strong.

  The field examination finished in the afternoon, and nothing was scheduled for that evening. Next day the written exam—actually a combination of written, verbal and demonstrative questions—was due, and everyone except Treetrunk was deep in the review texts. Treetrunk was dictating a letter home, his parameter of the translator blanked out so that his narration would not disturb the others.

  Dillingham pored over the three-dimensional pictures and captions produced by the tomes while listening to the accompanying lecture. There was so much to master in such a short time! It was fascinating, but he could handle only a tiny fraction of it. He wondered what phenomenal material remained to be presented in the courses themselves, since all the knowledge of the galaxy seemed to be required just to pass the entrance exam. Tooth transplantation? Tissue regeneration? Restoration of living enamel, rather than crude metal fillings?

  The elevator opened. A creature rather like a walking oyster emerged. Its yard-wide shell parted to reveal eye-stalks and a comparatively dainty mouth. "This is the—dental yard?" it inquired timorously.

  "Great purple quills!" Pincushion swore quietly. "One of those insidious panhandlers. I thought they'd cleared such obtusities out long ago."

  Treetrunk, closest to the elevator, looked up and switched on his section of the translator. "The whole planet is dental, idiot!" he snapped after the query had been repeated for him. "This is a private dormitory."

  The oyster persisted. "But you are off-duty dentists? I have a terrible toothache—"

  "We are applicants," Treetrunk informed it imperiously. "What you want is the clinic. Please leave us alone."

  "But the clinic is closed. Please—my jaw pains me so that I can not eat. I am an old clam—"

  Treetrunk impatiently switched off the translator and resumed his letter. No one else said anything.

  Dillingham could not let this pass. "Isn't there some regular dentist you can see who can relieve the pain until morning? We are studying for a very important examination."

  "I have no credit—no stiggle—no money for private service," Oyster wailed. "The clinic is closed for the night, and my tooth—"

  Dillingham looked at the pile of texts before him. He had so little time, and the material was so important. He had to make a good score tomorrow to mitigate today's disaster.

  "Please," Oyster whined. "It pains me so—"

  Dillingham gave up. He was not sure regulations permitted it, but he had to do something. There was a chance he could at least relieve the pain. "Come with me," he said.

  Pincushion waved his pins, that were actually sensitive celia capable of intricate manoeuvring. "Not in our operatory," he protested. "How can we concentrate with that going on?"

  Dillingham restrained his unreasonable anger and took the patient to the elevator. After some errors of navigation he located a vacant testing operatory elsewhere in the application section. Fortunately the translators were everywhere, all keyed to everything, so he could converse with the creature and clarify its complaint.

  "The big flat one," it said as it propped itself awkwardly in the chair and opened its shell. "It hurts."

  Dillingham took a look. The complaint was valid: most of the teeth had conventional plasticene fillings, but one of these had somehow been dislodged from the proximal surface of a molar: a Class II restoration. The gap was packed with rancid vegetable matter—seaweed?—and was undoubtedly quite uncomfortable for the patient.

  "You must understand," he cautioned the creature, "that I am not a regular dentist here, or even a student. I have neither the authority nor the competence to do any work of a permanent nature on your teeth. All I can do is clean out the cavity and attempt to relieve the pain so that you can get along until the clinic opens in the morning. Then an authorized dentist can do the job properly. Do you understand?"

  "It hurts," Oyster repeated.

  Dillingham located the creature's planet in the directory and punched out the formula for a suitable anaesthetic. The dispenser gurgled and rolled out a cylinder and swab. He squeezed the former and dabbed with the latter around the affected area, hiding his irritation at the patient's evident inability to sit still even for this momentary operation. While waiting for it to take effect, he requested more information from the translator—a versatile instrument.

  "Dominant species of Planet Oyster," the machine reported. "Highly intelligent, non-specialized, emotionally stable life-form." Dillingham tried to reconcile this with what he had already observed of his patient, and concluded that individuals must vary considerably from the norm. He listened to further vital information, and soon had a fair notion of Oyster's general nature and the advisable care of his dentition. There did not seem to be anything to prevent his treating this complaint.

  He applied a separator (over the patient's protest) and cleaned out the impacted debris with a spoon excavator without difficulty. But Oyster shied away at the sight of the rotary diamond burr. "Hurts!" he protested.

  "I have given you adequate local anaesthesia," Dillingham explained. "You should feel nothing except a slight vibration in your jaw, which will not be uncomfortable. This is a standard drill, the same kind you've seen many times before." As he spoke he marvelled at what he now termed standard. The burr was shaped like nothing—literally—on Earth, and it rotated at 150,000 r.p.m.—several times the maximum employed back at home. It was awesomely efficient. "I must clean the surfaces of the cavity—"

  Oyster shut mouth and shell firmly. "Hurts!" his whisper emerged through clenched defences.

  Dillingham thought despairingly of the time this was costing him. If he didn't return to his texts soon, he would forfeit his remaining chance to pass the written exam.

  He sighed and put away the power tool. "Perhaps I can clean it with the hand tools," he said. "I'll have to use this rubber dam, though, since this will take more time."

  One look at the patient convinced him otherwise. Regretfully he put aside the rubber square that would have kept the field of operation dry and clean while he worked.

  He had to break through the overhanging enamel with a chisel, the patient wincing every time he lifted the mallet and doubling the necessity for the assistant he didn't have. Back on Earth Miss Galland had always calmed the patient. A power mallet would have helped, but that, too, was out. This was as nervous a patient as he had ever had.

  It was a tedious and difficult task. He had to scrape off every portion of the ballroom cavity from an awkward angle, hardly able to see what he was doing since he needed a third hand for the dental mirror.

  It would have to be a Class II—jammed in the side of the molar and facing the adjacent molar, and both teeth so sturdy as to have very little give. A Class II was the very worst restoration to attempt in makeshift fashion. He could have accelerated the process by doing a slipshod job, but it was not in him to skimp even when he knew it was only for a night. Half an hour passed b
efore he performed the toilet: blowing out the loose debris with a jet of warm air, swabbing the interior with alcohol, drying it again.

  "Now I'm going to block this up with a temporary wax," he told Oyster. "This will not stand up to intensive chewing, but should hold you comfortably until morning." Not that the warning was likely to make much difference. The trouble had obviously started when the original filling came loose, but it had been weeks since that had happened. Evidently the patient had not bothered to have it fixed until the pain became unbearable—and now that the pain was gone, Oyster might well delay longer, until the work had to be done all over again. The short-sighted refuge from initial inconvenience was hardly a monopoly of Earthly sufferers.

  "No," Oyster said, jolting him back to business. "Wax tastes bad."

  "This is pseudo-wax—sterile and guaranteed tasteless to most life forms. And it is only for the night. As soon as you report to the clinic—"

  "Tastes bad!" the patient insisted, starting to close his shell.

  Dillingham wondered again just what the translator had meant by "highly intelligent... emotionally stable". He kept his peace and dialled for amalgam.

  "Nasty colour," Oyster said.

  "But this is pigmented red, to show that the filling is intended as temporary. It will not mar your appearance, in this location. I don't want the clinic to have any misunderstanding." Or the University administration!

  The shell clamped all the way shut, nearly pinning his fingers. "Nasty colour!", muffled.

  More was involved here than capricious difficulty. Did this patient intend to go to the clinic at all? Oyster might be angling for a permanent filling. "What colour does suit you?"

  "Gold." The shell inched open.

  It figured. Well, better to humour this patient, rather than try to force him into a more sensible course. Dillingham could make a report to the authorities, who could then roust out Oyster and check the work properly.

  At his direction, the panel extruded a ribbon of gold foil.