The Galactic Gourmet sg-9

by James White

  “My name is Gurronsevas,” he said, unable to ignore the second insult in spite of Prilicla’s voice in his earpiece observing that convalescent patients were notoriously argumentative. “My early training and subsequent life have been devoted to mastering the culinary arts, and I have no other interests. I am, therefore, a good cook, and that is why I have been asked to help you. Creethar, you must eat before you are returned to the mine, but you refuse ship food. If it is unpalatable to you, explain why and I shall provide an alternative.”

  Creethar’s body moved restively but it did not speak.

  “There is an adverse emotional response,” said Prilicla, “a return of the feelings of fear and personal loss. I don’t know why this should be, but it peaked at your mention of returning it to the mine. Please change the subject.”

  But the subject was supposed to be food and the necessity for making Creethar eat some, Gurronsevas thought angrily. Then, realizing that the empath was receiving his anger, he calmed himself and went on. “What did you find wrong with the ship food? Did the taste displease you?”

  “No!” said Creethar with surprising vehemence. “Some of it tasted like meat, better meat than I had ever tasted before.”

  “Then I don’t understand why you refused …” Gurronsevas began.

  “But it was not meat!” the patient broke in. “It looked and tasted like meat, but it was some strange, other-world concoction from what the winged one called a synthesizer. It is not Wem food. I must not eat it lest it poison my body. You as a cook will understand the importance of meat to the adults of a species, any species. There can be no survival without it.”

  “As a Tralthan cook,” said Gurronsevas firmly, “I know no such thing. The majority of my species has not eaten meat for many centuries. They do this out of preference, not because we have the stomachs of grazing animals. My home world, Traltha, and the many Traltha-seeded planets, are well-populated and thriving. You have been believing an untruth, Creethar.”

  The patient was silent for a moment, then it said slowly, “Your preserver friends have said this to me many times. By your standards the Wem are backward and pitifully uneducated, but we are not stupid. Neither are we small children listening to the wondrous stories told by parents to give us pleasant dreams. Do you expect a grown Wem to believe an obvious untruth because it is told to me by off-worlders?”

  Gurronsevas had not been expecting a response like this from a being weakened and still recovering from serious injuries. He thought quickly, then said, “I am aware of the difference between intelligence and education, and that of the two intelligence is of vastly greater importance because it aids the acquisition of education. But there are adult Wem in the mine who are beginning to believe our stories.”

  “The minds of the aged,” said Creethar, “too often resemble those of the very young. I do not know why you are trying to make me eat your strange, sweet-tasting meat from a machine. You are not a friend or family or even a Wem, you do not know or do not care what damage it will do to my body, and you do not have my responsibility towards my people. No matter what you tell me, I will not eat your off-world food.”

  Plainly Creethar had very strong feelings on the subject, too strong for logical argument to change them, and Prilicla’s emotional reading was in agreement. It was time to change the approach.

  He said carefully, “The last time you spoke to Doctor Prilicla, who is the beautiful one who flies, you asked about your friends at the mine. I have spoken to Remrath and many of the near adults while working in the kitchen. What would you like to know?”

  Even through the translator, Creethar’s tone sounded incredulous. “My mother allowed you in the kitchen?”

  “I am a cook,” said Gurronsevas.

  It was without doubt the greatest understatement of his long and distinguished professional life, but the patient did not know that.

  When Creethar did not respond, he began talking about his impressions of the life and people in the mine. Briefly he described the initial off-worlder contacts with the aged teachers and the Wem young, his decision to spend most of his time there and, after the passage of a few days, the increasing acceptance of his advice by Remrath.

  Well did Gurronsevas know that a kitchen and its serving staff was the center for all of an establishment’s gossip, scandal and current events. A table server was obvious only when he, she or it was doing something wrong, at other times remaining an inconspicuous part of the background, which meant that diners rarely felt it necessary to guard their tongues. Gurronsevas did not believe in training clumsy food-servers, so the intelligence available in the Wem kitchen was both up-to-date and accurate.

  He did not always know the precise meaning, degree of scandal, or humor contained in the conversations he was relaying, but several times Creethar made untranslatable sounds and its body twitched inside the restraints, and gradually Gurronsevas was returning to the subject of food. The purpose of the conversation was, after all, to make the patient eat.“… Remrath has been kind enough to adopt many of my suggestions,” he went on smoothly, “and they have proved popular not only with the teachers and the young but among a few of your returned hunters who say that—”

  “No!” Creethar protested. “Have you given them the poisonous off-world food from your machine?”

  “I have not,’’ said Gurronsevas reassuringly. “The ship’s food dispenser is intended for crew use and it lacks the capacity to feed an entire community, so our off-world food was not offered to them. Only you have been offered it because of your gravely weakened and starving condition, and you have refused it.

  “Your friends in the mine,” he went on quickly, “are eating and, most of them have told me, enjoying the local edible vegetation which was thought to be suitable only for children. They eat it because I have shown Remrath many new ways to vary the taste of your vegetable meals, and present them more attractively, and add contrasts of taste with sauces made from herbs and spices which grow all over the valley.

  “For example …”

  Creethar neither moved nor spoke while Gurronsevas, with growing enthusiasm, went on to describe the many changes he had wrought in the mine-dwellers’ eating habits. The new ways he had shaped and added spices or soft berries to their coarse-ground flour before baking had met with general approval. He said that his words and Creethar’s imagination were a poor substitute for the taste sensations he was describing. When he repeated the compliments paid to his cooking by Remrath, and even the arch-traditionalist Tawsar, there was still no response. He was fast running out of things to say.

  Trying hard to control his impatience, he said, “Creethar, are you feeling hungry?”

  “I am feeling hungry,” Creethar replied without hesitation.

  “It is feeling hungrier,” Prilicla joined in, “with every word you speak.”

  “Then let me give you food,” said Gurronsevas. “Wem, not off-worlder machine food. Surely you can find no fault with that?”

  Creethar hesitated, then said, “I am unsure. The Wem food served to the young is well remembered, and it is not a pleasant memory. If you have somehow improved the taste, it may be because you have added off-world substances to it. I cannot take that risk.”

  In the past Gurronsevas had dealt with his share of overly fastidious diners, and the diet and natural-food fanatics had been particularly difficult, but Creethar was making some of their demands easy by comparison.

  “Creethar, you must eat,” he said very seriously. “I am not myself a preserver and cannot give a precise estimate, but if you begin taking food regularly you will soon be returned to your people. If you prefer Wem food to that from our machine, I can prepare the simple vegetable stew you remember as a child and, as flavoring, I shall ask Remrath for a little of the meat brought back by your hunting party. Your people are anxious to have you back, and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind …”

  “No!” said Creethar sharply, its body moving weakly against the restraints. “You mu
st not ask my people for meat, or speak to Remrath about me. This you must promise.”

  “The patient,” said Prilicla, “is feeling increasing distress.”

  I can see that for myself, Gurronsevas thought. But why was it distressed? Had it suffered undiagnosed head injuries and was no longer rational? Or was it simply behaving like a Wem?

  Quickly, he said, “Very well, Creethar, I promise. But there is another possibility. Suppose I were to gather edible vegetation from your valley, and show it to you before and during every stage of its preparation and cooking. I will not promise to serve it up in the way that you remember, but I am sure that you will approve of the results. I will not even use the heating system of the food dispenser for cooking, since you might fear contamination, but will personally gather your own natural combustibles and kindle a cooking fire on the deck beside you where you can watch me at work. What do you say now, Creethar? I foresee no difficulty in meeting all of your objections.”

  “I am very hungry,” said Creethar again.

  “And you, friend Gurronsevas,” said Prilicla warningly, “are being very optimistic.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Naydrad, with the characteristic Charge Nurse’s concern for the proper ordering and cleanliness of its medical empire, objected strongly to fires being lit on its aseptically clean casualty deck and wood smoke polluting the atmosphere. Pathologist Murchison said that it was bad enough to be forced back into the medical dark ages of treatment by herbs and poultices without being asked to become smoke-filled-cave dwellers. Doctor Danalta, who could adapt to any environment capable of harboring life, remained aloof but disapproving, and Senior Physician Prilicla tried to keep the peace and reduce the unpleasant emotional radiation in the area. But there were times, as now, when Gurronsevas did nothing to smooth their feelings.

  “Now that Creethar has been tempted into eating regularly and in satisfactory quantities for a convalescent patient …” he began.

  “For a convalescent glutton,” said Naydrad.“… another and, you will be pleased to hear, non-medical idea has occurred to me,” he went on. “During your last clinical discussion, which I could not help overhearing, you stated that the patient was making good progress, but that its recovery would be hastened if meat protein and certain minerals in trace quantities, all of which can be provided by our food dispenser, were added to its food intake.

  “My idea is this,” he continued. “Since Creethar is afraid of everything produced by the dispenser, even though it has watched us use the casualty deck outlet many times, the patient would be greatly reassured if it were to see us eating Wem food prepared by myself as well as dispenser meals. Hopefully we should be able to convince it that dispenser food will not harm it because Wem food does not harm us. You will then be able to make the required dietary change that will …”

  Gurronsevas broke off because Naydrad’s fur was standing in angry spikes all over its body, Prilicla’s fragile body was trembling in the emotional gale that was sweeping the casualty deck, and Murchison, its face turning a deeper pink, was holding up both hands.

  “Now just wait one minute!” it protested. “It was bad enough you cooking in here and choking us half to death, now you’re asking us to eat your disgustingly smelly Wem meals! Next you’ll want us to sing Wem songs round the campfire so that it can feel even more at home.”

  “With respect,” said Gurronsevas in a voice that was not particularly respectful, “the temporary pollution was not life-threatening, and on one occasion the Charge Nurse told me that the odor of some of the meals was not unpleasant …”

  “I said,” Naydrad broke in, “that it killed the stink of wood smoke.”“… You cannot know that a meal is smelly and disgusting until you have tried it,” Gurronsevas continued, ignoring the interruption, “because anyone with a semblance of culinary education knows that taste and odor are complementary. I would have you know that some of the Wem vegetable sauces I have created, which I assure you are a taste well worth acquiring, are such that I shall introduce them into the Sector General menu on my return.”

  “Fortunately,” said Danalta, “I can eat anything.”

  Impatiently, Gurronsevas went on, “I have never poisoned a diner in my life and I do not intend to start now. You all belong to a profession in which objectivity is a prime requirement, so why are you making purely subjective judgments now? My suggestion is that you eat one full Wem meal every day with the patient, always bearing in mind that any toying with food or other visible show of reluctance while eating it would not be reassuring to the patient. After all, it is you people who wanted the patient to eat, and now to incorporate the additional material you consider necessary. I am simply trying to tell you how this can be done.”

  Gurronsevas did not have to be an empath to sense that another emotional eruption was imminent from Pathologist Murchison and Charge Nurse Naydrad. But it was Senior Physician Prilicla with its firm but gentle authority who spoke first.

  “I feel that a spirited exchange of views is about to occur,” it said, rising and flying slowly towards the exit, “so I shall excuse myself and retire to my compartment where the resultant emotional radiation will be diluted by distance. I also have the feeling, and my feelings are never wrong, that all of you will remember the purpose of Rhabwar and its medical team, and recall the many strange patients and even stranger adaptations we were forced to make while treating them so that we could further that purpose. I will leave you to argue, and remember.”

  The argument continued, but everyone knew that Gurronsevas had already won it.

  During the next four days the Wem found and destroyed the last of the communicating and listening devices left in the mine, and the few words they were able to hear before contact was lost made it plain that the off-worlders had committed a most shameful crime and were worthy only of the deepest scorn. While gathering the early morning vegetation, Gurronsevas tried to speak to a teacher in charge of one of the working parties, but the elderly Wem closed its ear flaps and the young ones had obviously been instructed to ignore him. Since all contact had been severed, the team did not know what crime they had committed or how to apologize for it. But when Gurronsevas offered to enter the mine uninvited to ask Remrath for an explanation, Prilicla said that the Wem anger and disappointment was so strong that it could detect their feelings even on the quarter-mile distant Rhabwar, and it could not risk a further deterioration of the situation, if that was possible.

  Creethar, it felt sure, was their only way back to full contact.

  Good progress was being made with their patient. Led by Prilicla, who felt that it should set them an example, the medical team were using his Wem menu for their principal meal of the day. They had agreed not to criticize his cooking within the hearing of Creethar, and as he left the patient’s side only to gather fresh vegetation every morning, he was not aware of any adverse criticism.

  But when Creethar was finally enticed into eating a little dispenser food containing the required medication, and its continuing increase in body mass necessitated easing of its restraining straps, compliments of a kind were forthcoming.

  “Today’s meal wasn’t bad, Gurronsevas,” Murchison said grudgingly. “And the lutij and yant dessert could grow on me in time.”

  “Like a fungus,” said Naydrad. But its fur remained unruffled, he noticed, so the Kelgian’s disapproval could not have been extreme.

  “I liked what you did with the main course,” said Prilicla who, when it was unable to say anything complimentary, said nothing. “While the taste and texture were completely different, I would rate it close to my other favorite non-Cinrusskin dish, Earth-human spaghetti with cheese in tomato sauce. But I feel distended and have a need for some flying exercise outside the ship. Would one of you like to accompany me?”

  It was looking only at Gurronsevas.

  Prilicla did not say anything else to him until they were outside and the ship’s protection screen had blinked off to let them through. With th
e empath hovering close to his shoulder, he walked slowly away from the mine entrance and down into the valley. Their path would pass within one hundred yards of a Wem working party, but he knew that the teacher in charge would ignore them.

  “Friend Gurronsevas,” the empath said suddenly, “we, but to a greater extent you, are gaining Creethar’s trust, and the process would not be aided if we were to exclude it from our conversations by switching off its translator. That is why I wanted to talk to you alone.

  “You must already have guessed that Creethar is ready for discharge,” it went on. “Apart from one immobilized lower limb, whose cast is timed to dissolve in two weeks’ time when the fractured bones have knitted fully and will support its weight, it has healed well. It should be happy, relieved and pleased at the prospect of returning to its normal life, but it is not. I am far from happy with our patient’s emotional state. Something is badly wrong, and I would like to know what it is before I send Creethar back to its friends. That will be no later than two days from now because there is no clinical reason for keeping it longer.”

  Gurronsevas remained silent. The other was restating a problem, not asking a question.

  Prilicla went on. “It may well be that returning Creethar to its people will solve all our problems. Hopefully, it will reduce their present hostility towards us, restore Remrath’s personal friendship with you and enable us to resume friendly contact. But there is something about them that we do not fully understand, something that causes inexplicable emotional responses in our patient. Unless we completely understand the reasons for its unnatural feelings, sending it home could be another and even greater mistake. I cannot tell you what to say or ask, because the most general and superficial remarks about its parent Remrath, its hunter friends, and life in the mine are met with a disproportionately severe emotional reaction, which resembles that of a fearing person whose deeply held beliefs are under attack.