by James White
“But Surreshun has already told us that its race does not use them …” began Conway.
“And I believe it,” said Major O’Mara. “But we know that they come from its home planet and it is your problem-one of your problems, Doctor-to find the people who do use them. And now, if there are no other questions …
A few minutes later they were in the corridor. Conway looked at his watch and said, “Lunch. I don’t know about you, but I always think better with my mouth full. The water breathers’ section is just two levels above us- “It is kind of you to offer but I realize how inconvenient it is for
your species to eat in my environment,” replied Surreshun. “My life-support equipment contains an interesting selection of food and, although I am completely unselfish and thoughtful where the comfort of my friends is concerned, I shall be returning home in two days and the opportunities of experiencing multienvironment conditions and contacts are therefore limited. I should prefer to use the dining facilities of your warm-blooded oxygen breathers.”
Conway’s sigh of relief was untranslatable. He merely said, “After you.
As they entered the dining hall Conway tried to decide whether to eat standing up like a Tralthan or risk giving himself a multiple hernia on a Melfan torture rack. All the Earth-human tables were taken.
Conway insinuated himself into a Melfan chair while Surreshun, whose food supply was suspended in the water it breathed, parked its mobile life-support system as close as possible to the table. He was about to order when there was an interruption. Thornnastor, the Diagnosticianin-Charge of Pathology, lumbered up, directed an eye at each of them while the other two surveyed the room at large and made a noise like a modulated foghorn.
The sounds were retransmitted in the usual toneless voice saying, “I saw you come in, Doctor and Friend Surreshun, and wondered if we might discuss your assignment for a few minutes-before you begin your meal …
Like all its fellow Tralthans Thornnastor was a vegetarian. Conway had the choice of eating salad-a food which he considered fit only for rabbits-or waiting, as his superior had suggested, on a steak.
At the tables around them people finished their lunches and walked, undulated and, in one case, flew out to be replaced by a similar assortment of extraterrestrials, and still Thornnastor continued to discuss methods of processing the data and specimens they would be sending him and the efficient organization of this planet-sized medical examination. As the being responsible for analyzing this mass of incoming data it had very definite ideas on how the job should be handled.
But finally the pathologist lumbered off, Conway ordered his steak and for a few minutes he performed major surgery with knife and fork in silence. Then he became aware that Surreshun’s Translator was making a low, erratic growling sound which was probably the equivalent of the untranslatable noise an Earth-human would make clearing his throat. He asked, “You have a question?”
“Yes,” said Surreshun. It made another untranslatable sound then went on, “Brave and resourceful and emotionally stable as I am …
“Modest, too,” said Conway dryly.
I cannot help but feel slightly concerned over tomorrow’s visit to the being O’Mara’s office. Specifically, will it hurt and are there any mental aftereffects?”
“Not a bit and none at all,” said Conway reassuringly. He went onto explain the procedure used for taking a brain recording or Educator Tape, adding that the whole affair was entirely voluntary and should the idea cause Surreshun mental or physical distress it could change its mind at any time without loss of respect. It was doing the hospital a great service by allowing O’Mara to prepare this tape, a tape which would enable them to gain a full and valuable understanding of Surreshun’s world and society—
Surreshun was still making the equivalent of “Aw, shucks noises when they finished their meal. Shortly afterward it left for a roll around the water-filled AUGL ward and Conway headed for his own section.
Before morning he would have to make a start on tidying up loose ends, familiarizing himself with Meatball conditions and drawing up some fairly detailed plans for procedure prior to arrival-if for no other reason than to give the corpsman who would be assisting him the idea that Sector General doctors knew what they were doing.
Currently in his charge were a ward of silver furred caterpillar Kelgians and the hospital’s Tralthan maternity section. He was also responsible for a small ward of Hudlars, with their hide like flexible armor plate, whose artificial gravity system was set at five Gs and whose atmosphere was a dense, high-pressure fog-and the oddball TLTU classification entity hailing from he knew not where who breathed superheated steam. It took more than a few hours to tidy up such a collection of loose ends.
The courses of treatment or convalescence were well advanced, but he felt obliged to have a word with them all and say good-bye because they would be discharged and back on their home planets long before he returned from Meatball.
Conway had a hurried and unbalanced meal off an instrument trolley, and then decided to call Murchison. Reaction to his lengthy bout of medical dedication was setting in, he thought cynically, and he was beginning to think only of his own selfish pleasure …
But in Pathology they told him that Murchison was on duty in the methane section, encased in a small half-track vehicle — heavily insulated, jammed with heaters inside, hung with refrigerators outside — which was the only way of entering the Cold Section without both freezing herself to death within seconds and blasting the life out of every patient in the ward with her body heat.
He was able to get through to her on a relay from the ward’s duty room but, remembering the ears both human and otherwise which were probably listening in, he spoke briefly and professionally about his coming assignment and the possibility that she might be able to join him on Meatball in her capacity as a pathologist, and suggested that they discuss the details on the recreation level when she came off duty. He discovered that that would not be for six hours. While she spoke he could hear in the background the ineffably sweet and delicate tinkling-like the chiming of colliding snowflakes, he thought-of a ward full of intelligent crystals talking to each other.
Six hours later they were in the recreation level, where trick lighting and some really inspired landscaping gave an illusion of spaciousness, lying on a small, tropical beach enclosed on two sides by cliffs and open to a sea which seemed to stretch for miles. Only the alien vegetation growing from the cliff tops kept it from looking like a tropical bay anywhere on Earth, but then space was at a premium in Sector General and the people who worked together were expected to play together as well.
Conway was feeling very tired and he realized suddenly that he would have been due to start tomorrow morning’s rounds in two hours’ time if he still had had rounds to make. But tomorrow-today, that was- would be even busier and, if he knew his O’Mara, Conway would not be completely himself.
When he awakened, Murchison was leaning over him with an expression which was a mixture of amusement, irritation and concern. Punching him not too gently in the stomach she said, “You went to sleep on me, in the middle of a sentence, over an hour ago! I don’t like that-it makes me feel insecure, unwanted, unattractive to men.” She went on punishing his diaphragm. “I expected to hear some inside information, at least. Some idea of the problems or dangers of your new job and how long you will be gone. At very least I expected a warm and tender farewell …
“If you want to fight,” said Conway laughing, “let’s wrestle …”
But she slipped free and took off for the water. With Conway close behind she dived into the area of turbulence surrounding a Tralthan who was being taught how to swim. He thought he had lost her until a slim, tanned arm came around his neck from behind and he swallowed half of the artificial ocean.
While they were catching their breath again on the hot, artificial sand, Conway told her about the new assignment and about the tape taken from Surreshun which he was expected to take shortly.
Descartes was not due to leave for another thirty-six hours, but for most of that time Conway would have delusions of being an animated doughnut which probably considered all Earth-human females as shapeless and unlovely bags of dough, or perhaps something much worse.
They left the recreation level a few minutes later, talking about the best way of wangling her release from Thornnastor, to whose elephantine species the word romance was just an unTranslatable noise.
There was no real necessity for them to leave the recreation level, of course. It was just that the Earth-human DBDGs were the only race in the Galactic Federation with a nudity taboo, and one of the very few member species with an aversion to making love in public.
Surreshun had already gone when Conway arrived in Major O’Mara’s office. “You know it all already, Doctor,” said the psychologist as he and Lieutenant Craythorne, his assistant, hooked him up to the Educator. “But I am nevertheless required to warn you that the first few minutes following memory transfer are the worst-it is then that the human mind feels sure that it is being taken over by the alien alter ego. This is a purely subjective phenomenon caused by the sudden influx of alien memories and experience. You must try to maintain flexibility of mind and adapt to these alien, sometimes very alien, impressions as quickly as possible. How you do this is up to you. Since this is a completely new tape I shall monitor your reactions in case of trouble. How do you feel?”
“Fine,” said Conway, and yawned.
“Don’t show off,” said O’Mara, and threw the switch.
Conway came to a few seconds later in a small, square, alien room whose planes and outlines, like its furnishings, were too straight and sharp-edged. Two grotesque entities-a small part of his mind insisted they were his friends-towered over him, studying him with flat, wet eyes set in two faces made of shapeless pink dough. The room, its occupants and himself were motionless and …
He was dying!
Conway was aware suddenly that he had pushed O’Mara onto the floor and that he was sitting on the edge of the treatment couch, fists clenched, arms crossed tightly over his chest, swaying rapidly back and forth. But the movement did not help at all-the room was still too horrifying, dizzyingly steady! He was sick with vertigo, his vision was fading, he was choking, losing all sense of touch …
“Take it easy, lad,” said O’Mara gently. “Don’t fight it. Adapt.”
Conway tried to swear at him but the sound which came out was like the bleat of a terrified small animal. He rocked forward and back, faster and faster, waggling his head from side to side. The room jerked and rolled about but it was still too steady. The steadiness was terrifying and lethal. How, Conway asked himself in utter desperation, does one adapt to dying?
“Pull up his sleeve, Lieutenant,” said O’Mara urgently, “and hold him steady.”
Conway lost control then. The alien entity who apparently had control would not allow anyone to immobilize its body-that was unthinkable! He jumped to his feet and staggered into O’Mara’s desk. Still trying to find a movement which would pacify the alien inside his mind Conway crawled on hands and knees through the organized clutter on top of the desk, rolling and shaking his head.
But the alien in his mind was dizzy from standing still and the Earth human portion was dizzy from too much movement. Conway was no psychologist but he knew that if he did not think of something quickly he would end up as a patient-of O’Mara’s-instead of a doctor, because his alien was firmly convinced that it was dying, right now.
Even by proxy, dying was going to be a severe traumatic experience.
He had had an idea when he climbed onto the desk, but it was hard to recall it when most of his mind was in the grip of panic reaction. Someone tried to pull him off and he kicked until they let go, but the effort made him lose his balance and he tumbled head first onto O’Mara’s swivel chair. He felt himself rolling toward the floor and instinctively shot out his leg to check the fall. The chair swiveled more than 180 degrees, so he kicked out again, and again. The chair continued to rotate, erratically at first, but then more smoothly as he got the hang of it.
His body was jackknifed on its side around the back of the chair, the left thigh and knee resting flat on the seat while the right foot kicked steadily against the floor. It was not too difficult to imagine that the filing cabinets, bookshelves, office door and the figures of O’Mara and Craythorne were all lying on their sides and that he, Conway, was rotating in the vertical plane. His panic began to subside a little.
“If you stop me,” said Conway, meaning every word, “I’ll kick you in the face …
Craythorne’s expression was ludicrous as his face wobbled into sight. O’Mara’s was hidden by the open door of the drug cabinet.
Defensively Conway went on, “This is not simply revulsion to a suddenly introduced alien viewpoint-believe me, Surreshun as a person is more human than most of the taped entities I’ve had recently. But I can’t take this one! I’m not the psychologist around here, but I don’t think any sane person can adapt to a continually recurring death agony.
“On Meatball,” he continued grimly, “there is no such thing as pretending to be dead, sleeping or unconsciousness. You are either moving and alive or still and dead. Even the young of Surreshun’s race rotate during gestation until—”
“You’ve made your point, Doctor,” said O’Mara, approaching once again. His right hand, palm upward, held three tablets. “I won’t give you a shot because stopping you to do so will cause distress, obviously. Instead I’ll give you three of these sleep-bombs. The effects will be sudden and you will be out for at least forty-eight hours. I shall erase the tape while you’re unconscious. There will be a few residual memories and impressions when you awaken, but no panic.
“Now open your mouth, Doctor. Your eyes will close by themselves
Conway awoke in a tiny cabin whose austere color scheme told him that he was aboard a Federation cruiser and whose wall plaque narrowed it down to Cultural Contact and Survey vessel Descartes. An officer wearing Major’s insignia was sitting in the single, fold-down chair, overcrowding the cabin while studying one of the thick Meatball files. He looked up.
“Edwards, ship’s medical officer,” he said pleasantly. “Nice to have you with us, Doctor. Are you awake?”
Conway yawned furiously and said, “Half.”
“In that case,” said Edwards, moving into the corridor so that Conway could have room to dress, “the Captain wants to see us.
Descartes was a large ship and its control room was spacious enough to contain Surreshun’s life-support system without too much inconvenience to the officers manning it. Captain Williamson had invited the roller to spend most of its time there-a compliment which could be appreciated by any astronaut regardless of species-and for a being who did not know the meaning of sleep it had the advantage of always being manned. Surreshun could talk to them, after a fashion.
The vessel’s computer was tiny compared with the monster which handled Translation at Sector General, and even then only a fraction of its capacity could be spared for translation purposes since it still had to serve the ship. As a result the Captain’s attempts at communicating complex psycho political ideas to Surreshun were not meeting with much success.
The officer standing behind the Captain turned and he recognized Harrison. Conway nodded and said, “How’s the leg, Lieutenant?”
“Fine, thank you,” said Harrison. He added seriously, “It troubles me a little when it rains, but that isn’t often in a spaceship …
“If you must make conversation, Harrison,” said the Captain with controlled irritation, “please make intelligent conversation.” To Conway he said briskly, “Doctor, its governmental system is completely beyond me-if anything it appears to be a form of paramilitary anarchy. But we must contact its superiors or, failing this, its mate or close relatives. Trouble is, Surreshun doesn’t even understand the concept of parental affection and its sex relationships seem to be unusually complex …
/> “That they are,” said Conway with feeling.
“Obviously you know more than we do on this subject,” said the Captain, looking relieved. “I had hoped for this. As well as sharing minds for a few minutes it was also your patient, I’m told?”
Conway nodded. “It was not really a patient, sir, since it wasn’t sick, but it cooperated during the many physiological and psychological tests. It is still anxious to return home and almost as anxious for us to make friendly contact with its people. What is the problem, sir?”
Basically the Captain’s problem was that he had a suspicious mind and he was giving the Meatball natives credit for having similar minds. So far as they were concerned Surreshun, the first being of their race to go into space, had been swallowed up by Descartes’ cargo lock and taken away.
“They expected to lose me,” Surreshun put in at that point, “but they did not expect to have me stolen.”
Their subsequent reaction on Descartes’ return was predictable- every form of nastiness of which they were capable had been hurled at the ship. The nuclear missiles were easily evaded or knocked out, but Williamson had withdrawn because their warheads had been of a particularly dirty type and surface life would have been seriously affected by fallout if the attack had been allowed to continue. Now he was returning again, this time with Meatball’s first astronaut, and he must prove to the planetary authorities and/or Surreshun’s friends that nothing unpleasant had happened to it.
The easiest way of doing this would be to go into orbit beyond the range of their missiles and let Surreshun itself spend as much time as necessary convincing its people that it had not been tortured or had its mind taken over by some form of monstrous alien life like the Captain. Its vehicle’s communications equipment had been duplicated so there was no technical problem. Nevertheless, Williamson felt that the proper procedure would be for him to communicate with the Meatball authorities and apologize for the mistake before Surreshun spoke.
