Prostho Plus

by Piers Anthony

  Dillingham and Miss Porkfat completed their business at customs and left. The Jann followed, nonchalantly dragging along the two guards. After a while they let go.

  So much for protocol. Dillingham sighed with relief that the robot had not lost his metal temper.

  The Hobgoblin Office of Dentistry was imposing enough, externally. But inside the fine large building were distressingly backward facilities. This planet still used mechanical drills, X-rays, and needle-injected anaesthetics. Ouch!

  A harried goblin technician galloped up. "What do you want? We don't allow visitors in here. Particularly not aliens."

  "This is the representative from the University of Dentistry," Miss Porkfat said dulcetly. The nearest translator was down the hall a distance, so conversation was remote. "On a promotional tour. Your office was informed."

  "I don't need any off-world tub of lard to tell me what we've been informed! Come back next week; we're busy now.

  Miss Porkfat turned to Dillingham, her eye-stalk quivering again. "They prefer that we return next week, Doctor D."

  Something about this exchange rankled. "I heard, Miss P. But this was cleared with the authorities before we arrived, and my schedule does not permit a postponement." Some promotion!

  "We're very sorry, but it will have to be today," she informed the technician.

  "Go fry your posterior!"

  "I really think—"

  "I'll handle it, Miss P," Dillingham said, his ire rising. He was not a temperamental man, but his position did not allow him to tolerate very much such insolence. Miss Porkfat was being gentle when she should have been firm.

  "You don't have confidence in me!" she cried, beginning to quiver all over.

  "It isn't that, Miss P—"

  "Why should he, blubbertub?" the goblin demanded.

  "I'm only trying to—" she began, turning pink. On her, this was impressive.

  "Of course," Dillingham said diplomatically. "But in this case—"

  "Will you creeps get out of here?"

  "NO!" Dillingham shouted at the ugly face.

  Miss Porkfat began to dissolve. Literally.

  "I think this position is unsuitable for you, Miss P," Dillingham said with as much compassion as he was able to muster in the circumstance. "If you wish to return to the University and seek an on-campus placement—"

  She sucked herself together somewhat. "Thank you, Doctor D."

  "Good riddance, stinky," the goblin said, with as much compassion as he could muster.

  Dillingham walked haughtily by him, though privately he suspected that the goblin was right. This was no job for an assistant who melted in the face of conflict with abrasive personalities.

  "Watch where you're going, stupid!" the goblin screamed. "I said no visitors. I'll clobber you!"

  That was his mistake. The Jann, silent until now, boomed into animation. "None but I shall do him die—forty-nine years, five months, thirteen days hence, Earthtime," it proclaimed. By the time the words ceased reverberating, the goblin was gone, thoroughly cowed.

  A non-native was waiting in the next alcove. Willowy, sweet-smelling, with a cluster of slender blue tentacles and four soft purple eyes: quite aesthetic, in a surrealistic way.

  "Doctor Dillingham? I was sent by the University to assist you on a trial basis. I am Miss Anemone."

  So Miss Tarantula had anticipated his problem with Miss Porkfat! Such comprehension was frightening.

  "Very good," he said. Then, thinking ahead: This is a Jann. He's travelling with us."

  "I observed him. A handsome specimen. I hadn't been aware they made robots of that calibre any more."

  No loss of control there! Dillingham glanced down the hall. "And approaching us is another native technician."

  The Hobgoblin wore a badge of rank that distinguished him as an entity of moderate authority. "No visitors permitted. Leave at once."

  Miss Anemone braced him squarely. "This is the Assistant Director of the University School of—"

  "Don't waste my time with your ridiculous apologies," the goblin said brusquely. "Just get out."

  "If you will check our approved itinerary—"

  "One side, sea-spook." The goblin shouldered by her, intent on Dillingham. He did not get far. "Ouch!"

  "Oh dear me, I'm so sorry," she said solicitously. "Did my spines hurt you? I hope you will report to the infirmary right away. I certainly wouldn't want the toxin to get into your system." She led the way on down the hall while the goblin rushed off, rubbing his shoulder.

  So far, so good. Miss Anemone was not unduly sensitive to abuse, or helpless before it.

  They arrived at the main demonstration room. Here the wonders of modern Hobgoblin dentistry were displayed: quaint metal restorations, classic plastic dentures, primitive colour X-ray photographs. Dillingham viewed them politely, then approached the goblin in charge and began his presentation. "I believe the University can enhance aspects of your procedure—"

  "Who asked it to?"

  Dillingham was not free to mention the several tourists who had complained to the University. That was the unofficial part of his tour. The described symptoms had been vague and diverse, so that no consistent pattern had developed, and no complainer had actually reported for a University re-check. Thus there was no solid evidence that Hobgoblian dentistry was at fault—just a statistical suspicion.

  The kind of thing that had to be investigated unobtrusively, for planet Hobgoblin was sensitive about alien criticism. Unlikely as that might seem, from Dillingham's immediate experience.

  "Perhaps a demonstration of technique—" he suggested.

  "Oh, so the marvellous University desk jocky wishes to show the outworld peons how to practise!"

  Dillingham ignored this. "We might take a look at some of your problem patients." The kind that complain to the University! he thought eagerly. "Naturally, if I can demonstrate the advantages of University training—"

  "Training, schmaining! If we had your finances, we could afford a multi-species dontic analyser too, and have instant diagnosis of every—"

  "You are correct in your implication that the analyser is one of our more important diagnostic tools. But since it is far too expensive for the average facility, we stress the raw ability of the individual dentist using local equipment. It is the talent that remains after the—"

  But the goblin did not let him repeat the maxim he had learned so arduously from Oyster. "You claim you can use my equipment—and do a better job than I can?"

  Since courtesy did not seem to accomplish much here, Dillingham yielded to temptation and abandoned it. Unwisely. "Yes. And so could any University graduate."

  The goblin swelled with rage—then made an unholy smile, "You're on, Doc."

  He was, indeed, on. In half an hour Dillingham was ensconced in a model unit set up on a stage in an amphitheatre. Miss Anemone had a desk a few paces apart, and the Jann had a separate booth where he could watch for Dillingham's safety without obstructing the view of the audience. Goblin spectators, every one a qualified dentist, filled the hall.

  This was more than Dillingham had bargained on, and he made a mental note never again to speak precipitously. Meanwhile he had to follow through. Somehow things always did become complicated. He was almost getting used to it.

  The prosthodontic genius from Galactic U will now demonstrate how to handle a problem case," the chief dental goblin announced grandly. "Pay close attention so you can learn how stupid you are."

  Almost every grotesque little face mirrored the chief's resentment. No doubt of it: University prestige was on the line. If he failed here, there would be severe repercussions. He could, in fact, be eased out of the very position he was in training for: the Directorship of the School of Prosthodontics. The goblins were striking not at him, but at his career—a blow the Jann could not foil. All because of one intemperate remark.

  The first patient mounted the stage: a quadrupedal and vaguely equine creature with colourful bird-like plumage.r />
  Miss Anemone intercepted it. "May I have your name and planet of origin, please?"

  "Horsefeathers of Clovenhoof," the creature neighed, showing tremendous yellow teeth.

  "Please describe your complaint."

  "My teeth hurt."

  There was a murmur of nasty appreciation from the audience. Hobgoblin's finest practitioners were present, and Dillingham was sure that every one of them had had this problem: the unspecific response. Miss Anemone, of course, would not let it stand at that. She would question the patient gently but firmly, clarifying and isolating his symptoms until she had a fair notion of his real complaint. That was a major part of the duties of a galactic dental assistant: to get at the facts before the patient saw the dentist, thereby promoting office efficiency.

  "Dr. Dillingham will see you now," she said.

  There was a chorus of chuckles and a few hoots from the audience. They knew she had goofed. Well, he could not afford to correct her now. That would only make it worse. He would have to question the patient himself—and make sure never to get into such a situation again with an unfamiliar assistant.

  It probably was not her fault. Some dentists preferred to handle virtually everything themselves, and some assistants were trained to honour this. Probably she would have questioned the patient further had he asked her to do so. But Dillingham was far too busy to break in an assistant in all the little ways that were sure to turn up. Miss Anemone would not do.

  Horsefeathers ambled over and bestrode the dental chair, opening his long large mouth. His breath was not sweet.

  "Can you localize the area of sensitivity?" Dillingham inquired, beginning a routine check with the probe.

  "Huh?"

  "Where does it hurt?"

  "They all hurt. It changes," Horsefeathers said.

  Another appreciative goblin chuckle. Dillingham began to fear that they had thrown him a chronic complainer—one who would object no matter how well off his teeth were.

  "I see you have had extensive prosthodontic restoration," Dillingham observed. Indeed, the mouth was a mass of gold.

  "Huh?"

  "Lot of work done on you."

  "Yes. All right here on Hobgoblin. Lousy job."

  Silence from the gallery. Dillingham suppressed a smile. "On the contrary. My visual inspection suggests that this work is quite competent. However, I shall take X-rays to be sure there is no underlying problem," He tapped a tooth, finding it firm. "Miss Anemone—"

  Another evil gallery chuckle. He looked up.

  Miss Anemone was gone. A man-sized centipede occupied her desk. "I am Miss Thousandlegs, your new assistant. Miss Anemone was called away,"

  In the middle of a demonstration? This was getting too efficient! How had Miss Tarantula known?

  He also noted with surprise that the Jann was gone. The booth was empty and there was no familiar glint of robot metal. But he was sure the huge entity was in the vicinity—and would be, for the next forty-nine-plus years.

  All he said was: "Please take a full set of X-rays on this patient."

  Miss Thousandlegs rippled over, elevated her forepart, and positioned machine and plates. She was good at it, he had to admit, considering that she had probably only had experience with such equipment in some class on Antique Apparatus. In a moment she had the pictures.

  He almost gaped. "Root canal therapy on every tooth!"

  They were pretty far gone," Horsefeathers admitted.

  They must have been. Root canal therapy was only called for when the central nerve of the tooth became contaminated. Then this nerve had to be removed, and silver or gutta-percha or some galactic equivalent substituted, so that no further decay could occur. It was an expensive process, but it generally saved the tooth. The tooth was insensitive thereafter, of course. Without its nerve it could not feel heat or cold, pressure or pain.

  "I see no evidence of decay," Dillingham said, inspecting the X-rays carefully.

  "They still hurt," Horsefeathers said stoutly.

  With no nerves at all, they hurt. Dillingham controlled a sigh, knowing that the dentists of Hobgoblin were enjoying this hugely.

  "Do you wish me to check the occlusion?" Miss Thousand-legs inquired.

  Bless her! "By all means."

  She brought a wax plate and had the patient bite down on it so that his teeth imprinted the material in a horseshoe pattern, above and below. She studied this. "Serious malocclusion, Doctor," she announced.

  Dillingham could tell by the silence around him that the goblins had forgotten to make this test—just as he himself had almost forgotten, in his preoccupation with the impression he was making. Miss Thousandlegs had saved him. It was beginning to look as though he had found his assistant.

  "This will not hurt," he told Horsefeathers as he prepared his rotary unit. "In fact, I will not have to use any anaesthetic. I am merely going to grind down some of the surfaces a little. To adjust the occlusion, so that your teeth will meet properly when you bite."

  "But it doesn't hurt where I bite! It hurts deep inside!"

  "This is typical," Dillingham assured him. "You see, when the occlusion is imperfect—when your teeth meet unevenly—unnatural stress is placed on certain sections. Portions that are too high are driven back or shoved sideways. While this effect is too small for you to notice, ordinarily, it continues to irritate the periodontal membrane—the lining surrounding the roots of your teeth—crushing and bruising it. This lining is tough, for it is there to cushion the impact of constant chewing—but under abnormal stress it eventually becomes inflamed. And then you hurt—deep inside."

  Horsefeathers gazed at him in wonder. "I never knew that!"

  "Perhaps your dentist did not feel this was necessary for you to know," Dillingham said gently. "Many patients are not interested in such technical details." Until their teeth hurt, he thought wryly

  But the silence of the hall as he worked suggested that the point had been made. It was always best to let the patient know as much as feasible about his condition. An ignorant patient could be a difficult one. Horsefeathers had not been an idle complainer; he had really had pain, though the cause was subtle and slow to develop. His occlusion had been adjusted properly at the time of the massive restoration, Dillingham was certain. But with time and use it had changed marginally, and the jaw had felt the stress. Horsefeathers probably consumed enormous quantities of roughage and spent many hours a day chewing it, so this accentuated the condition.

  Dillingham had shown the dentists of Hobgoblin how to practise their profession—using their own tools. The University reputation would profit. There should be a number of student applications from Hobgoblin next term.

  He finished, and flushed the polished surfaces. "Expectorate, please."

  "Huh?"

  "Spit." The translator was being too literal, rendering a complex word in English into a complex equivalent in Clovenhoofian. But he'd have to tone down his language. "Now it will be a while before the inflammation subsides," he warned Horsefeathers. "But there should be a steady improvement now, until you feel no pain at all."

  "It'll still hurt?" The patient looked dubious.

  "It has to heal. When you—when you break a leg, you don't expect it to be good as new the moment the vet sets it, do you?"

  Horsefeathers thought about that. He looked at his leg. He smiled. "Thank you, thank you, Doctor!" he exclaimed at last. "I'm so glad you came here." He trotted off, limping a little before remembering that it was his mouth that hurt.

  Another patient mounted the stage. This was a native Hobgoblin. Dillingham knew that meant trouble. He had counted his dental chickens too soon!

  "May I have your name, sir?" Miss Thousandlegs inquired.

  "Go fly a kite!"

  True to form, Dillingham thought. And how would she react—by melting or stinging?

  "How do you spell that, please?"

  Dillingham liked her better all the time. Spelling via translator was devious and suspect, but she had fielde
d the insult nicely.

  "G o," the goblin spelled. "F L Y. The A is an initial for Algernon. Last name is KIT E."

  Dillingham reminded himself not to jump to conclusions.

  "And what is your problem?" Miss Thousandlegs inquired.

  "This tooth—it squishes. Sometimes."

  "May I look at it?"

  "You're not the dentist, bugface!"

  "Nevertheless, I may be able to narrow down the possibilities and save both you and Dr. Dillingham trouble."

  Grudgingly he let her look. "Another restoration," she murmured. "Tooth appears to be healthy."

  "It's not healthy, stupid. It squishes. Sometimes."

  "Could you show me?"

  G. F. A. Kite bit down, almost nipping several of her hair-fine legs. "Nope. It's not squishing right now. But it does. Sometimes."

  "I'll take an X-ray," she said. She did.

  "When do I see the damn dentist?"

  "In just a moment. Let me check your occlusion first." She did. "You may see him now."

  She accompanied the patient to Dillingham's operatory. "X-ray shows nothing but the tooth is mobile," she said. "The occlusion is slightly off."

  Kite made a face. "I heard that about Horsefeathers. But mine is only one tooth and it doesn't hurt, it squishes. Sometimes."

  "Nevertheless, occlusion seems to be indicated," Miss Thousandlegs said. "Two plus two equals four. I'm sure if we adjust that, your symptom will fade."

  Dillingham agreed with her—but felt she was going too far. She was not merely getting the facts, she was diagnosing and advising the patient—and that was normally the dentist's prerogative. He should add two and two and get four.

  He checked the teeth. They were similar to human dentures, and most had been restored metallically. All were solid, including the squisher, except for that trace mobility his assistant had noted.

  He inspected the X-ray photograph. She was correct there too. The only shadows in the picture conformed to the restorative work present. It had to be the occlusion, again.

  He made the necessary adjustments. But one thing nagged him. The occlusion was only marginally skew. Presuming that this condition had developed only recently, the described symptom was too sharp, too localized.