by James White
“Are they better healers than they are cooks?” Naydrad broke in, its fur tufting with impatience.
“I am not qualified,” said Gurronsevas, “to give an opinion on medical matters, but I wanted to—”
“Then why,” said Murchison sharply, “are you interrupting a clinical discussion?”
“Please go on, Gurronsevas,” said Prilicla, gently but very firmly. “I feel you wanting to help.”
As briefly as possible he described one of his recent food experiments in the mine kitchen, where he was continually trying to find combinations of taste and consistency that would lift the vegetable meals to a level where, so far as the tradition-bound Wem were concerned, they would compete successfully with their remembered meat dishes. He had been trying every variety of root, leaf and berry that he could find, including those he found in a small and apparently little-used storage cupboard. His first attempt to incorporate them into a main dish had led to much unexplained hilarity among the kitchen staff until Remrath had told him that he was using stale materials from their medicinal herbs store.
“From the discussion that followed,” he went on, “I learned that, while the Wem would not cut surgically into a living body, they use herbal remedies to treat simple medical conditions. Respiratory difficulties, problems encountered with the evacuation of body wastes, and superficial wounds are treated in this way, usually with hot poultices made from a paste of certain clays and herbs, and grasses to bind the poultice together and allow easier application to the injured area. When I asked them about your patient’s injuries, Remrath said that Creethar was seriously and irreparably damaged, that parts of his body had been broken, and that treating the superficial damage would merely prolong suffering that had already gone on for far too long.”
While he had been speaking, Prilicla had alighted on the bottom edge of Creethar’s bed and was watching Gurronsevas, as silent and still as all the others. The patient’s respirator was beginning to sound loud.
Hesitantly, he went on, “If, if I understand you correctly, Creethar’s internal injuries, the fractures, have been treated and it is the surface wounds that are causing concern. That was why I mentioned—”
“Gurronsevas, I’m sorry,” Murchison broke in again, “I did not think you could make any contribution, and impatience made me forget my manners. Even with the availability of these local folk-remedies whose effectiveness is still in doubt, we may not be able to cure our patient. But its chances have improved.”
The pathologist laughed suddenly, but it was the sharp, barking sound which, Gurronsevas thought, indicated a release of tension rather than amusement. It went on, “But just look at us! We have the most technologically advanced ambulance ship in known space with, I say in all modesty, a medical team with the experience to match it, and we’re back to using dark-age poultices! When Peter gets to hear about this, he will never let us live it down. Especially if the treatment works.”
Feeling confused, Gurronsevas said, “I do not know the entity, Peter. Is it important?”
“You do,” said Prilicla, wings beating slowly as it rose to hover above the patient. “Peter is the name used by family and friends for Pathologist Murchison’s life-mate, Diagnostician Conway, a being who in the past has been no stranger to unusual medical practices. But the matter is not important to our present situation. What is important is that you speak with Remrath as quickly as possible. Ask it for supplies of its herbal medications, with information regarding their application and use. That is important, friend Gurronsevas, and very, very urgent.”
Before replying, Gurronsevas turned one eye towards the direct vision port. The valley was still in darkness but the slopes of the mountains were outlined by the grey light of early dawn.
He said, “My memory for colors and shapes and smells, as well as for words of explanation, is excellent. If the matter is urgent there will be no need to talk again with Remrath. I shall leave shortly to begin gathering the necessary herbs and mosses. They are at their most effective when gathered early in the morning.”
CHAPTER 30
Over the next four days Gurronsevas kept the ambulance ship supplied with fresh herbal vegetation when required, together with the Wem cook-healer’s instructions for using it, but he continued to spend as much time as possible in the mine kitchen. His reasons for doing so were both positive and negative.
Whenever he was present on the casualty deck, Murchison, Danalta and Naydrad were always worrying aloud about the ethical implications of a lay person dictating a patient’s course of medical treatment, and where the responsibility for treating Creethar really lay. Nothing was said to him directly, but he did not know how to answer the unspoken criticism and felt very disturbed by it, even though he normally considered the opinions of other people toward him to be of no importance. Since he had left the kitchens of the Cromingan-Shesk, where his authority had been absolute, his self-confidence had been under constant and successful attack. It was not a nice feeling.
Prilicla, who could not help but know of Gurronsevas’s feelings, waited until the others were either off-watch or too busy to listen before drawing him aside so that they could speak privately.
“I understand and sympathize with your feeling of irritation and uncertainty, Chief Dietitian,” said the empath, the quiet, musical trilling and clicking of its native speech barely audible above the translated voice in Gurronsevas’ earpiece, “as you must try to understand those of the medical team. In spite of the things you have heard them say, they are not being critical of you so much as displaying self-irritation at their own professional inadequacy over the fact that a mere cook — my apologies, friend Gurronsevas, when they take time to think about it they will realize that you are much more than a mere cook — is able to help their patient in ways that they cannot. They can no more help their feelings than you can your own, but I shall suggest gently that they refrain from showing them to you. Until the problem of Creethar is resolved, please make allowances for them. I could not have asked this of the Chief Dietitian who joined the hospital a few months ago. You have changed, friend Gurronsevas. It is for the better.”
His confused feelings were clear for the other to read, Gurronsevas knew, so he said nothing.
“For the present,” Prilicla went on, “it will be more comfortable for you if you spend as much time as possible with friend Remrath in the mine.”
That was not to be as easy as it first appeared. For some reason, Remrath, and to a lesser extent the rest of the kitchen staff and teachers, were acting in an increasingly unfriendly manner toward him. And Prilicla was too far away to read the subtle changes in their emotional radiation that would give him some indication of what he was saying or doing wrong.
Fortunately, the young Wem did not share the feelings of their elders and remained respectful, obedient, curious, and continually excited by speculations regarding the strange culinary marvels their off-world cook would suggest next. Even the returned hunters were sampling his offerings with decreasing reluctance, although, as staunch traditionalists, they still insisted that meat was the only proper food for an adult and that they would continue to eat it.
Considering the pitifully small amount they had brought back from their hunt — with careful rationing there would be barely enough to add a meat flavor to the standard Wem vegetable stew for a few more weeks — their personal shame must have been as great as their hunger. Gurronsevas did not openly disagree with them. He was educating ignorant palates and enticing them into trying new sensations, and generally winning their hearts and minds by a flanking attack through their stomachs. The pretense of losing the occasional battle was of no importance when he knew that he was winning the war.
But the hunters, too, were showing signs of turning against him for no reason that he could see. Unlike Remrath and the other teachers, they had never been friendly or relaxed in his presence, but they had adapted surprisingly well to having an off-worlder in their midst. Over the past few days, however, th
eir behavior towards him had verged on the hostile. In his presence the silences of the Wem adults were lengthening to the point where an attempt to open a conversation with a simple question brought only the briefest and most reluctant of responses, delivered in a tone that should have turned the running water in the kitchen to ice. He could think of no reason for their change of behavior and it was beginning to irritate him. In the circumstances, he decided, it would be better to forget the polite niceties of a first contact situation and ask a simple, direct question.
“Remrath,” he said, “why are you angry with me?” After several minutes without a response, Gurronsevas decided that the question was being ignored. He returned his attention to the preparation of the day’s alternative main meal which, in spite of being nicknamed by the Wem ‘the off-world option’, was one of several dishes he had devised that used only local root and leaf vegetables with an added sauce containing the barest touch of the native herb shuslish which had the effect of lighting a gentle fire on the tongue while stirring the olfactory senses with a warm expectancy. From experience he knew that his dish would be chosen by the majority of the adults and all of the young, and it would be only a few die-hard hunters who would eat the native vegetable stew with its extremely light flavoring of meat. But that was fine, Remrath had told him when they were still talking, because the remains of the hunters’ kill preserved in the cold running mountain water weighed less than two pounds, and the less the demand, the longer it would last.
The dish complete, Gurronsevas stepped back to make room for the four young apprentice cooks on this shift, who moved quickly forward to begin spooning out and duplicating his presentation before moving the completed dishes to his newly introduced hot shelves to await serving. One of them — a youth called Evemth, he thought, although he still had difficulty telling near-pubescent Wem apart — had made a small rearrangement to the presentation by adding a few tiny sprigs of driss to the surface of the shuslish sauce, which would not do anything catastrophic to the overall taste but did add a certain visual attraction. The change had been made on only one platter, presumably Evemth’s own.
There had been a time when he would have verbally stripped the tegument from an underling who had dared to do such a thing without permission, if only to show the miscreant that The Master was alert and quick to see the smallest of unauthorized changes. But this young Wem was displaying culinary initiative and imagination and was beginning to think and experiment for itself. Evemth, if it was Evemth, showed promise.
“I am not angry with you,” said Remrath suddenly.
And black is white, thought Gurronsevas. But this was not the time to start an argument. He felt that Remrath had more to say, and remained silent.
“In a time that surprised us all by its short duration,” Remrath went on, “and in spite of your horrendous appearance, we have come to feel at ease in your presence. You have gained our respect and, with one of us at least, our friendship. But we are very angry and disappointed with the preservers on your ship and, as one of the off-worlders, you must share in our anger.”
“I understand,” said Gurronsevas.
He knew that all of his conversations in the mine were being monitored by Rhabwar and Tremaar, but for many days they had paid him the compliment of not continually telling him what to ask or answer. There were times, as now, when he would have gladly done without both the compliment and the responsibility.
“But the preservers, like myself, want only to help the Wem. You must all know and believe that. Why are you now so angry with them? And what must I do to regain your friendship?”
In the angry, impatient voice of one who is speaking to a stupid child, Remrath said, “They are continuing to withhold Creethar from us.”
Gurronsevas was relieved. It seemed that the two problems had a single solution, the speedy return of their grievously injured hunter. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Your offspring will be returned to you as soon as possible. I am not myself a preserver so I cannot say with accuracy how long you will have to wait. I shall ask the preservers for their best estimate. Or you could visit the ship and see for yourself what is happening to Creethar and ask them any questions you wish.”
“No!” said Remrath sharply, as sharply as it had done on the other occasions when a visit to Creethar was suggested. Angrily it went on, “You are most insensitive, Gurronsevas. It hurts me to say this but I, too, am beginning to suspect you, as well as the other off-worlders, of gross and selfish dishonesty. I want you to prove me wrong, and until you do we shall not speak again. Go back to your ship and tell your friends to return Creethar to us without delay.”
Remembering his last conversation with Prilicla, Gurronsevas set off for Rhabwar wondering if there was anyone anywhere who wanted his company. If it still lived, the Wem patient would talk to him and, hopefully, explain the strange behavior of Remrath and the others. Mysteries and unanswered questions were like heaps of trash littering a mind, and he liked to think that his mind was at least as well-ordered as his kitchens. He would suggest to Prilicla that he be allowed to speak to Creethar on his return.
“I was about to make the same suggestion to you, friend Gurronsevas,” the empath said, surprising him. “The situation with the Wem is deteriorating more rapidly than you realize, and for no apparent reason. Did you know that they have broken contact entirely, switched off the communicators we left with them, after telling us that off-worlders were no longer welcome in the mine? Creethar is the only channel of communication left open to us; but it, too, has said repeatedly that it does not want to talk to off-worlders.”
Prilicla indicated the patient’s bed and flew slowly towards it. No other members of the medical team were present, Gurronsevas noted, possibly because Creethar was no longer in danger, or because it objected strongly to them being there. It was nice to have his supposition proved true.
“Clinically,” Prilicla went on, “friend Creethar is doing very well. Since the application of your locally derived medication, its condition has advanced from critical to pre-convalescent. Its emotional radiation, however, is not good. There is a deep and continuing anxiety, a dread, that it is trying to conceal and control. It refuses to discuss the problem with us in spite of my attempts at reassurance …”
Not only was Prilicla emotion-sensitive, Gurronsevas reminded himself, the little Cinrusskin was a projective empath as well. Unless there was serious emotional distress present, it could make everyone feel better just by flying into a crowded room.“… During our last and very short conversation with it,” said Prilicla, “it asked about its parent Remrath, the hunting party, and events at the mine. That was two days ago. Since then it has refused to speak or even listen to us, and it became extremely distressed whenever we tried to discuss the case in its presence, so much so that I switched off its translator whenever we were doing so. It is also refusing to eat. Unknown to it, we are continuing to feed it intravenously; but, psychologically and clinically, we both know that the speedy recovery of a convalescent patient is improved by the intake of solid food. In this case the patient is so gravely weakened by malnutrition that without it Creethar’s termination cannot be long delayed.
“But you, friend Gurronsevas, have four distinct advantages over us,” the empath continued. “It has not yet met you while conscious. You are not a medic and will therefore not feel the temptation to discuss the patient’s clinical condition in its presence. You are a master cook who may be able to discover the patient’s food preferences. And lastly, you have first-hand information on recent events in the mine. That is why I would like you to talk to Creethar as soon as possible.”
With its iridescent wings beating slowly, the Senior Physician drifted to a halt above the patient’s bed before going on. “You have been accepted as a friend by these people, much more so than any of the medical team. But do not assume, because you have grown to like and respect one of them, that they are human. They are not human, whether your yardstick is Earth-human, C
inrusskin-human, or even Tralthan-human like yourself; they are Wem-human. That difference, compounded by something we have said or done wrong, is the reason why they are no longer our friends.”
“I will be careful,” said Gurronsevas.
“I know you will,” said Prilicla. It extended a delicate forward manipulator and briefly touched a stud on the bed console. “I will monitor and report on the patient’s emotional response on a closed frequency. Its translator has been switched on. Friend Creethar’s eyes are closed but it is awake and listening to us. It is better that I leave you now.”
Creethar lay on the treatment bed in a position that allowed the casts enclosing its injured limbs to be suspended comfortably in a system of cross-braced slings that reminded Gurronsevas of the cordage on an old-time sailing ship. The remainder of the body and tail were immobilized by restraining straps, but he did not know whether these were to protect the patient against self-injury or the medical attendants from attack. The casts were transparent and there were no bandages, dressings, or Wem poultices visible, so that he could see that the many infected wounds that had covered the hunter’s body were healed or healing. Suddenly it opened its eyes.
“Great Shavrah!” Creethar burst out, its whole body fighting the restraints. “What kind of hulking, stupid beast are you?”
Gurronsevas ignored the insult and responded only to the question.
“I am a Tralthan,” he said reassuringly. “That is, I am a member of a species larger and perhaps more visually fearsome than the others you have met on the ship. Like them, however, I mean you no harm. Unlike them I am a cook and not a healer. But I, too, wish only to help return you to full …”
“A cook who isn’t a healer?” Creethar broke in. Its voice was quieter and the body was beginning to relax inside the restraints. “That is strange, off-worlder. Were you incapable of completing your education?”
