by James White
The Padre made a quiet, gurgling sound that did not translate and said, “God, and possibly the virus creature, knows.”
Hewlitt puzzled over the question in silence all the way to his old ward. Apart from calling O’Mara to pass on the new information, the Padre refused further discussion of the subject. It was possible that a large part of Lioren’s mind was on the troubles of the patient it was about to visit.
“Patient Hewlitt,” said Leethveeschi the moment he entered the nurses’ station, “what are you doing here?”
He knew that the charge nurse was used to the Padre visiting its ward, but it did not sound pleased by the presence of a former patient and proven disruptive influence like himself. Hewlitt was still trying to find a suitable reply when Lioren answered for him. He noted that the Padre did not actually lie, but it was sparing in its use of the truth.
“With your permission, Charge Nurse,” Lioren said, “it will accompany me so that it may observe and talk to the patients and, if it is able, provide me with nonmedical support. I will insure that it does not talk to anyone who is currently undergoing treatment or is in an unfit condition to hold a conversation. Ex-Patient Hewlitt will not, I assure you, cause any more trouble.”
A section of Leethveeschi’s body twitched inside its chlorine envelope in what was probably a nonverbal gesture of assent. It said, “I think I understand. The experience with Patient Morredeth has caused it to decide, or perhaps strengthen a decision already made, to become a trainee priest-counselor. This is very laudable, exPatient Hewlitt, and you have a fine mentor.”
“My real reason for being here…“Hewlitt began.
“Would take too long to explain,” Leethveeschi broke in, “and right now I haven’t the time to listen to an other-species theological self-examination, interesting though it might be. You may talk to any of my patients who are able to talk back. But please, let us have no more miracles.”
“That is a promise,” he said as he followed the Padre into the ward.
They had already eliminated Leethveeschi and the other staff on duty in the nurses’ station from their list of former hosts, as well as the patient Lioren was visiting. It was a Melfan called Kennonalt whose support sling was surrounded with a worrying profusion of biosensor and life-support equipment. He did not find out what was wrong with it because, apart from exchanging names, Lioren had made it clear that the conversation with Kennonalt was to be private and that Hewlitt should spend the time checking the other patients until the Padre rejoined him.
His slow, zigzag progress down and from side to side of the ward was a trip through familiar territory, although he could not be sure of the familiarity of the patients because he still had difficulty telling one Tralthan, Kelgian, Melfan, or whatever from another. Most of them seemed glad of the chance to talk, a few appeared to be heavily sedated or were simply ignoring him, and one was undergoing treatment that could not be interrupted. But he was able to look at them, patients and medical attendants alike, closely and for more than enough time to eliminate them as former hosts. His last visit was to a Tralthan and a Duthan who were playing two-handed scremman at the ambulatory patients’ dining table. By the time he spoke they, too, had been eliminated.
“Horrantor? Bowab?” he said. “Are you well?”
“Ah, you must be Patient Hewlitt,” said the Tralthan. “My limb is mending, thank you, and Bowab is doing very well, both medically and in this accursed game. It is pleasant to see you again. Tell us about yourself. Were they able to find out what was wrong with you?”
“Yes,” he replied. Choosing his words with care, he went on, “I no longer have the complaint and feel very well indeed. But it was an unusual condition, they told me, and they asked if I would help them tie up a few medical loose ends by remaining for a while. It was difficult to refuse.”
“So now you’re a healthy lab specimen,” said Bowab in a worried voice. “It doesn’t sound like much of an improvement. Have they done anything nasty to you yet?”
Hewlitt laughed. “No, and it isn’t like that at all. I have my own quarters in the staff accommodation area, a small room that belonged to a couple of Nidians, and I’m free to wander all over the hospital so long as the Padre is with me to see that I don’t get lost or run over by somebody. All they want me to do is talk to people and answer questions.”
“You always were a strange patient,” said Bowab, “but your convalescence sounds even stranger.”
“To be serious for a moment,” said Horrantor. “If all you do is talk to people and answer questions, presumably they also talk to you, or talk among themselves in your presence. Perhaps by accident or in ignorance of your nonstaff status, do they ever tell you things that you are not supposed to know? If so, and if you are allowed to answer, would you answer one of our questions?”
This sounded like something more serious than a patient’s normal hunger for the latest hospital gossip, Hewlitt thought. It was a time for caution.
“If I can,” he said,
“Horrantor has a nasty, devious mind,” said Bowab, joining in again, “and an imagination to match. That is why it beats me so often at scremman. We overheard some of the nurses talking together. They stopped very quickly when they realized that we were listening. Probably it was only staff gossip, or maybe nothing but our complete misunderstanding of an incomplete conversation, or it was something more than gossip. It is really worrying us.”
“Everybody enjoys a good gossip,” he said, “but it isn’t supposed to worry you sick. What is your question?”
There was a moment’s silence while Bowab and Horrantor looked at each other. Then the Duthan said, “According to what the charge nurse told me about ten days ago, I should have been discharged by now for convalescence in a home-planet hospital. In Sector General they don’t believe in wasting either their time or their unique medical resources on patients who are no longer in need of them. But yesterday when I asked Leethveeschi why I was still here and if there was anything it wasn’t telling me, it said that there was no environmentally suitable transport available to take me home and that there were no medical problems for me to worry about.
“About the same time,” Bowab went on, “Senior Physician Medalont held a bedside lecture on Horrantor. It told the trainees that the patient was sufficiently recovered to be discharged without delay. That should have been within a few days, because the majority of the supply and transport vessels that come here, sometimes as often as four or five in a week, are crewed by warm-blooded oxygen-breathing species who are required by Federation law to provide accommodation for most of the other warm-blooded oxygen-breathers who need to travel. Traltha and Dutha, remember, are commercial hub worlds on the way to practically everywhere. But the reason Leethveeschi gave for Horrantor still being here was the same as mine, the nonavailability of environmentally suitable transport.”
“Don’t forget to tell it about the emergency drill,” said Horrantor.
“I won’t,” said Bowab. “The day before yesterday a twentystrong maintenance team descended on the ward to conduct what Leethveeschi said was an emergency evacuation drill. They detached the beds of the most seriously ill patients from their wall supports, fitted them with extra oxygen tanks and antigravity grids, and deployed the airtight canopies, after which they moved all of us out of the ward and along the corridor to the intersection that leads to Lock Five before bringing us all back again. Leethveeschi timed the operation and told the team that they would have to do better than that; then it apologized to us for the inconvenience and told us to return to our game and not to worry. But while the maintenance people were leaving-and complaining about the charge nurse’s personality defects and the unfairly high standard of performance expected by their superiors in a major evacuation drill, the like of which had not been practiced for about twenty years-we overheard a few odd scraps of conversation that worried us very much.
“Our question,” Bowab ended, “is what exactly are they hiding from us?”
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“I don’t know,” said Hewlitt, and added under his breath, “exactly.”
That was the literal truth, but he was remembering his return in Rhabwar and the general signal from Reception for all ships to hold beyond the approach beacons unless carrying casualties in urgent need of attention. An unspecified technical problem that Maintenance was dealing with had been given as the reason, and in any case the signal had not applied to the special ambulance ship.
Hewlitt did not feel as reassuring as he sounded when he went on, “I haven’t heard any rumors about an evacuation, but I’ll listen and ask around. Have you considered the possibility that you misunderstood the incomplete conversations you overheard? All large, staff-intensive organizations carry out emergency drills from time to time. When someone realized that it had not been done in Sector General for twenty years, the hospital authorities must have decided that it had to be done sooner than yesterday and, naturally, it was the junior staff who suffered the inconvenience.
“It could be that Leethveeschi is right,” he added, mentally crossing his fingers, “and you have nothing to worry about.”
“That’s what we keep telling each other,” said Horrantor, “but after playing scremman together for so long, we have difficulty believing anything we say.”
“Speaking of which,” said Bowab, “would you like to join the game? One of us could buy you in as a short-term political consultant and watch for indications that you are going to change sides…
On the edge of his field of vision he could see the Padre approaching slowly down the ward, moving from side to side and looking at or exchanging a few words with the patients as Hewlitt had done earlier. He said, “Sorry, not this time. I’ll have to leave in a few minutes.”
When they were in the corridor again, he said, “From the patients and staff I felt nothing. You?”
“Nothing,” said Lioren.
“But I did hear an interesting rumor,” said Hewlitt. He went on to recount the observations and suspicions of Horrantor and Bowab and the wording of the signa] that had been received by Rhabwar. He knew that the Padre would not deliberately misinform him, and that if the other could not tell the truth it would ignore his questions. He ended, “Have you heard any rumors of an evacuation, and do you know what is going on?”
It was a few moments before Lioren replied, and then it said, “Next we go to the eighty-third level and the Meeting of Diagnosticians.”
CHAPTER 27
First to arrive was a large, slow-moving, and aged Tralthan whom Lioren identified as Thornnastor, the diagnostician-in-charge of Pathology. They watched it from the moment it appeared from a side corridor that was about thirty meters distant until it drew abreast of their position opposite the the room where the meeting was to take place. Without bending an eye in their direction or saying a word, it turned in to the entrance.
“No?” asked the Padre.
“No,” Hewlitt agreed. “But why did it ignore us? We’re big enough to see and there’s nobody else in the corridor.”
“It has a lot on its minds…” Lioren began, then broke off to say, “Here come three more. Conway and the chief psychologist we already know are clear. The Kelgian is Diagnostician Kurrsedeth. No?”
“No,” said Hewlitt again.
Conway nodded as he passed, O’Mara gave them a scowl of impatience, and Kurrsedeth said, “Why are the Padre and that Earth-human DBDG staring at me like that?”
“Right now,” said O’Mara dryly, “they have nothing better to do.”
A refrigerated vehicle which Lioren identified as belonging to Diagnostician Semlic turned in to the corridor. The Vosan was an ultra-low-temperature, methane life-form whose crystalline metabolism made its unsuitability as a virus host a virtual certainty. In contrast to the cold that was radiating from Semlic’s vehicle, since the passage of O’Mara Hewlett had been self-generating a lot of internal heat.
“How,” he said, “did such a sarcastic, ill-mannered, thoroughly obnoxious person ever get to be the hospital’s chief psychologist? Why hasn’t a member of the staff committed a lifethreatening act of physical violence on him long since, as I feel like doing now?”
Lioren taised a medial arm to point along the corridor and said, “This one is Colonel Skempton, another Earth-human DBDG as you can see, who is in charge of supply, maintenance, and nonmedical administration. It is the ranking Monitor Corps officer on Sector General and, I think we can agree, it has never been a host of the virus creature.”
“Right,” said Hewlitt. “But what I don’t understand is why isn’t someone like Prilicla doing O’Mara’s jpb? It is sympathetic, reassuring, pleasant all the time, and it really feels for its patients. And on that subject of empathy, why doesn’t its empathic faculty work on diagnosticians? Or do I add another three questions to the list of those you will not answer?”
The Padre did not look at him when it spoke, because its eyes were directed up and down the corridor. It said, “Your last three questions have a single answer which, subject to interruptions by arriving diagnosticians, I am free to give you because it has no bearing on the present emergency.
“First,” it went on, “Prilicla is much too gentle and and sensitive to hold the position of chief psychologist, while O’Mara is sensitive and caring but not gentle…
“Sensitive and caring?” said Hewlitt. “Is my translator on the blink?”
“We haven’t much time,” said the Padre. “Do you want to hear or talk about Major O’Mara?”
“Sorry,” he said, “I’m listening.”
As the hospital’s chief psychologist, Lioren went on to explain, O’Mara’s overall responsibility was the smooth and efficient mental operations of the ten-thousand-odd members of its medical and maintenance staff. For administrative reasons he carried the rank of major and, theoretically, this placed him among the lower links in the Monitor Corps chain of command. But keeping so many different and potentially hostile life-forms working together in harmony was a large job whose limits, like O’Mara’s actual authority, were difficult to define.
Given even the highest qualities of tolerance and mutual respect among all levels of its personnel, and in spite of the careful psychological screening they were given before being accepted for training, there were still occasions when serious, interpersonal friction threatened to occur because of ignorance or misunderstandings over other-species cultural and interpersonal behavior. Or a being might develop a xenophobic neurosis which, if left untreated, would ultimately affect its mental stability and professional competence.
It was the major’s duty to detect and eradicate such problems before they could become life- or sanity-threatening or, if therapy failed, to remove the potentially troublesome individuals from the hospital. This constant watch for signs of wrong, unhealthy, or intolerant thinking, which his department performed with such zeal, had made him the most disliked entity in the hospital. But the chief psychologist was doubly fortunate in that he had never sought the admiration of others and gave every appearance of enjoying his work.
“O’Mara has a particular and personal responsibility,” Lioren continued, “for safeguarding the sanity of the diagnosticians, who are in simultaneous possession of… The one who is approaching us now is the Melfan diagnostician, Ergandhir. The last time we spoke it was carrying seven tapes. Have you any feelings of recognition for it?”
Hewlitt waited until the Melfan had clicked past on its four, exoskeletal legs and gone in to join the others, then said, “No. And it was another one who completely ignored our presence. From what you just said I thought you two knew each other.”
“We know each other very well,” said Lioren, “so I must assume that the forefront of Ergandhir’s mind is currently occupied by one of its Educator taped entities who does not know me, and never will since the original donor is no longer alive.”
“I hate to ask another question,” said Hewlitt, “but will you explain that?”
“It is part of the same ques
tion,” the Padre said, “and I’m trying to answer it.
Educator tapes were very much a mixed blessing, Lioren explained, but their use was necessary because no single being could hope to hold in its brain all the physiological and clinical information needed for the treatment of patients in a multispecies hospital. That was why the incredible mass of data required to care for them was furnished by means of the Educator tapes, which were the complete brain recordings of great medical specialists of the past belonging to the species concerned. If an Earth-human doctor had to treat a Kelgian patient, he took one of the DBLF physiology tapes until the treatment was complete, after which he had it erased. Senior physicians with teaching duties were often called on to retain two or three of the tapes for long periods, which was not very pleasant for them, and their only consolation from their points of view was that they were better off than the diagnosticians.
They were the hospital’s medical elite. A diagnostician was one of those rare entities whose mind was considered stable enough to retain permanently and simultaneously up to ten physiology tapes. To their data-crammed minds was given the job of original research in xenological medicine and the diagnosis and treatment of new diseases in hitherto unknown life-forms.
There was a well-known saying in the hospital, reputed to have originated with O’Mara himself, that anyone sane enough to want to be a diagnostician was mad.
“You must understand that it is not only the physiological data that the tapes impart,” the Padre went on. “The complete memory and personality of the donor entity who possessed that knowledge is impressed as well. In effect a diagnostician subjects itself voluntarily to a most drastic form of multiple schizophrenia, with the alien personalities sharing its mind so utterly different in motivation and character that… Well, geniuses in any field are rarely nice people. These donor entities have no control over the host’s thinking or bodily functions, but a diagnostician who does not have a stable and well-integrated personality can sometimes fool itself into believing that the opposite is true and it is no longer in charge of itself. Getting used to walking on two feet when your mind insists that you have six is bad enough, but the food preferences, the dreams that come when the body is asleep and the mind has no conscious control, are much worse. Worst of all are the other-species sexual fantasies. They can be really disturbing.
