by Mike Resnick
“Could the orifice be used for excretion?” asked Darlinski. “Highly doubtful,” said Jennings. “No, I'll make it stronger. Definitely not. I would certainly have found something to indicate it if that were the case. Sorry to give you a problem, boss, but that's the way I read it.”
“A problem? Hell, you've given me a pair of them.” “Yeah?”
“First, I've got a female patient with no discernible sex organs. And second, I've got an eater with no discernible means of excreting waste products.” “Maybe that's what's wrong.” Jennings grinned. “Maybe she ate too much and is due to explode.” “Thanks a lot,” said Darlinski. “Well, I'd better get back down there and see if I can figure out what to do next.”
When he arrived a few minutes later he found the Pnathian gasping weakly for air. Its face, and hence its breathing orifice, was covered with a foul-smelling substance which seemed to be coming from its food-ingesting orifice. Quickly summoning an intern to help him, Darlinski managed to turn the Pnathian on its side and, taking an antiseptic wipe, began cleaning its head off. In a few moments the breathing became normal again, and, instructing the intern to keep a watchful eye on the patient, he took a sample of the substance up to Pathology.
“Well,” said Jennings after some thirty minutes of testing, “we've solved one of your problems. It seems that the same mouth, or orifice, does double duty: it both ingests the food and excretes it. Very inefficient.
In fact, uncommonly so.”
“You're sure it's not vomit?” asked Darlinski. “Absolutely,” said Jennings. “Vomit would still have some partially undigested food left. This stuff is all broken down. The body's taken most of what it needed, and this is what's left.” “We're learning things all the time,” said Darlinski. “I bet if they left the damned thing here for another year or so, I might even figure out what's killing it.” “According to the newstapes,” said Jennings, “you've got considerably less than a year.” “Don't remind me. What are the chances of it dying if I take some X-rays and fluoroscope it?” “I don't think the X-rays will do any harm. Under normal circumstances I'd say that fluoroscoping was out of the question until we knew more about it, but these are hardly normal circumstances, so you might as well go ahead.”
Two hours later Darlinski was looking at a number of X-rays that were laid out before him and cursing furiously.
“Well, boss?” asked Jennings on the intercom. “It can't have any broken bones,” said Darlinski. “The damned old girl doesn't have a bone in her entire body!”
“Learn anything from the fluoroscope?”
“Not a thing. I've seen insects with more complicated digestive systems. The food goes in, is carried to just about every cell in the body, and what remains will be coming out again in a day or so. All that's left is brain damage and how the hell do I know whether it exists or not until I've seen a working model of an undamaged brain?” He loosed another stream of curses. “This stupid creature just doesn't make any sense!”
“Agreed,'’ said Jennings. “You know those scrapings?” “What about them?”
“They're growing. Another week and they'll cover the whole damned slide.” “Could it be a form of cancer?” asked Darlinski. “No way,” came the reply. “No cancer I know of ever acted like this. These scrapings haven't been cultured; by rights, they should be dead and decaying.” “Besides, if there was some kind of skin cancer, I'd have spotted it before now,” agreed Darlinski. He stood up. “This is crazy! The respiratory system is working, the digestive system is working, the circulatory system is working. What the hell can be wrong with it?” “A stroke?” suggested Jennings.
“I doubt it. If there were a blood clot in the brain, something else ought to be hampered too. I figure we
can rule out a heart attack, too; we haven't made the slightest attempt at treatment and yet the condition, whatever it might be in regard to the norm, is completely stable. It seems to me that if anything sudden hit her, she'd either degenerate or start improving. But she doesn't do either.” “If you're looking for some paradoxes,” added Jennings, “you might figure out why everyone keeps calling it a female.”
“I've got enough paradoxes of my own to work on,” said Darlinski. “I don't need any of yours.” “Just trying to be helpful, boss. See you later.” Darlinski went back to the patient, muttering obscenities to himself. It just didn't add up; even a virus, left unattended, would either have killed her or been partially fought off by antibodies by now. Perhaps the weirdest part of the whole insane situation was the fact that the ambassador simply refused to change, either for better or for worse.
Okay, he decided, let's look at it logically. If the Pnathian's condition remained unchanged, it must be because something in her internal or external environment was also unchanged. Since he had established, insofar as was possible, that her internal systems were all functioning normally, and since Jennings had as yet been unable to detect any microbes, bacteria, or viruses that might be harmful, he would operate on the hypothesis that the cause was either a blood clot or tumor in her brain, which he couldn't possibly cure or even find, or else that the problem lay in the external environment. And, if the external environment was the cause of her problems, the most likely place to begin changing that environment was with the atmosphere and the gravitation. He began by changing the pressure within the room to zero gravity, with no visible effect. Then, gradually, he increased it to three gravities. The breathing became slightly more labored, but there was no other reaction, and on a boneless being he didn't feel he could increase the pressure any further. He then placed a respirator over the Pnathian's breathing orifice and lowered the oxygen content to fifteen percent, then twelve percent. When he got it down to eight percent he thought the patient would surely begin to choke, but instead, he detected a noticeable twitching of one eyelid. Encouraged, he dropped it down to a four percent oxygen compound—and all hell broke loose! The Pnathian ambassador began whispering incoherently, and her tentacular appendages started thrashing wildly. Darlinski easily avoided them, strapped the trunk of her body to the table, and settled back to observe her. Her eyes were open, but seemed unable to focus, and her motions, even after ten minutes, were so disjointed as to convince him she would never in a dozen lifetimes learn how to bring food to her mouth, let alone pilot a spaceship. An idea began dawning somewhere in the back of his mind, but first he had to check out a few facts. His first act was to call Jennings.
“Tell me,” he asked the pathologist, “exactly what would happen to a human, used to breathing a nineteen percent oxygen compound, if you doubled the oxygen content on him?” “He'd probably laugh his fool head off,” said Jennings promptly.
“I know,” said Darlinski. “But is there any possibility that he might pass out instead?”
“I doubt it. Why?”
“What if you quadrupled it—got it up to seventy-six percent, or even a little bit higher?” “It's been done many times in emergency cases.” “Does it ever knock them out?”
“Once in a while. Rarely, though. What are you getting at?” “One final question and I'll tell you.” “Ask away,” said Jennings.
“What if you stuck a man into a ninety percent oxygen atmosphere” “No problem,” came the quick reply.
“You didn't let me finish,” said Darlinski. “What if you put him there and left him there for a week?” “It's never been done to my knowledge. It'd probably burn out the brain and the lungs, in that order.... Wait a minute! Are you trying to tell me that...” “...That our ambassador breathes a four percent oxygen compound, or less, and that she's been living in our equivalent of a ninety percent oxygen tent since she arrived. At first it was probably invigorating, perhaps even intoxicating. But ultimately it hit her, hard, and she's been in a state of collapse ever since.” “Then you've solved it!” exclaimed Jennings. “Pretty simple at that, wasn't it?” “I haven't solved it at all,” said Darlinski. “I'd wager that she hasn't got enough brainpower left to rattle around in a thimble. T
otally uncoordinated, eyes can't focus, unaware of surroundings, drooling slightly out of her two ingestion orifices. It's my opinion that right now she ranks considerably lower than a potted plant on whatever scale they use to measure intelligence. She may be cured, but she's as nonfunctional as a rock.”
“If it'll make you feel any better, she was probably like that within an hour of her collapse,” said Jennings.
“Makes me feel great,” said Darlinski, cutting the communication. The idea was rounding out, but he still had to check with Hammett. He explained the entire situation to him, then waited while Hammett checked with the government. “Nice job,” said Hammett an hour later, “but the Pnathians aren't buying. First, they think we're lying to them, and second, they think that if we're telling the truth we're responsible for what happened to her. So we came close, but no cigar. The truce ends in two days, time, so if you can't come up with a way to cure a mental vegetable by then...” His voice trailed off. “Let me ask you one question,” said Darlinski.
“Shoot.”
“How do you know that the ambassador is a woman?” “The Pnathians—or, to be more accurate, the Pnathian spokesman—told us so.” “Told you it was a female?”
“Yes.”
“What were the exact words?”
“I'm not quite sure. A general expression of regret that Leonora had just recently reached that point of physical maturity where she could have offspring.” “Is that an exact, word-for-word translation?” “Not quite. But it's as close as our translators could come with a race that doesn't speak Galactic.” “Our heterosexual male and female translators,” said Darlinski. “What are you getting at?” asked Hammett “Don't ask,” said Darlinski. “Now, let me get one fact straight in my mind: Whether the ambassador lives as a vegetable or dies tomorrow makes no difference in the Pnathians’ stated plans, correct?” “Correct.”
“All right. I've got a favor to ask of you.” “I'll do what I can,” said Hammett.
“I want you to cordon off Surgery Room 607 and the adjacent recovery room. Then I want you to set up the capabilities for an atmosphere of three and a half percent oxygen, ninety-five percent nitrogen, and one and a half percent inert elements in both rooms. Standard pressure. And finally, post a guard and see that no one except Jennings is allowed in without my express permission.” “Give me two hours and it'll be done,” said Hammett. “But—” “No questions. Oh yes, I'll want one other thing, too. Give me a vat, one cubic yard, of the most highly concentrated nitric acid we have, and place some opaque covering over it.” “Acid?”
“Right. And don't forget the covering. I'll be down in surgery in two hours.” True to his word, Hammett had the rooms in order when Darlinski and a nurse wheeled the Pnathian in at the appointed hour. Jennings was waiting for them, a curious expression on his face. “You know,” he said, “I've been wracking my mind trying to figure out what kind of operation you plan to perform. I keep coming up with the same crazy answer.”
“Far from being a crazy answer,” said Darlinski “I've got a sneaky suspicion it's the only sane one. You
can act as my anesthetist.”
“Will you need one?”
“Shortly. Nurse: you, Jennings and I will now don our oxygen masks.” This done, he ordered the atmosphere lowered to three and a half percent oxygen. “Okay, Jennings, set the respirator up to thirty-five percent and knock her out.”
Jennings placed the nozzle over the Pnathian's breathing orifice, and the ambassador lost consciousness almost immediately.
“Is the acid vat here?” asked Darlinski. He looked around until he found it. “All right, nurse. We will now prepare for amputation.”
“What are you amputating, sir?” asked the nurse. “The head,” said Darlinski.
“I knew it!” said Jennings. “You've got to be out of your mind!'’ “What've we got to lose?” asked Darlinski, unmindful of the nurse's horrified reaction. “Mindless or dead, the war starts; this is the only way to stop it.” And, so saying, he made an incision midway on the long stalk that passed for a Pnathian neck. His hands moved quickly, expertly, until the neck was all but severed. “Nurse,” he said, looking up for an instant, “it will doubtless bother you no end, but I don't want this sutured or closed in any way. We will apply a tourniquet for about ninety seconds, but it must then be removed.”
The nurse, pale and horrified, nodded weakly. “Jennings, you know what to do with the head?'’ “The vat?”
Darlinski nodded. “If I'm right, it's going to be screaming bloody murder anyway, so we'll destroy it as quickly as possible.”
“Wouldn't the incinerator have been more humane?” “Doubtless. However, I don't relish taking a babbling, decapitated head down five levels and through crowded corridors to the incinerator. Do you?” “I see your point.” Jennings grinned. He grunted as the head rolled off the Pnathian's body, and, averting his eyes as best he could, he quickly took it to the opaque vat and placed it inside. When he got back to the table he found Darlinski removing the tourniquet. No blood poured forth. “It probably doesn't need it, despite the absence of its mouth, but let's open up the neck a bit and insert
a breathing tube. Then you'd better run up to Pathology and figure out what kind of solution we can give
it intravenously until it can eat for itself, though with all that subcutaneous fat I doubt that it'll be necessary.” Jennings left, and Darlinski turned to the nurse. “Until I know the outcome of all this, I'm afraid you're going to be confined to quarters. You are not to discuss this with anyone except Mr. Hammett, Dr. Jennings, or myself. Is that clear?” The nurse nodded.
“Fine. Stick around a bit longer, until we can hunt up a replacement. And call Hammett and tell him to get his tail down here on the double.”
It took Hammett exactly four minutes to arrive, at which time Darlinski explained the operation to him. “You see,” he began, “the whole problem was that the ambassador is very definitelynot a female. That threw me for a while, but I couldn't give it my full attention until I figured out what had caused its problem in the first place. But there were so many hints I should have seen it even sooner: the fact that its tissue kept growing, even when it wasn't cultured; the fact that we couldn't find any sexual apparatus; the fact that there were no outlets for spores. So of course, what could it be but an entity that is capable of reproduction by fission, and hence of regeneration? I should have guessed something like that the first day, when only one of my scrapings drew any blood at all, and that coagulated in just two or three seconds.”
“But can it grow a head?” asked Hammett. “After all, you've removed its brain and all its orifices. Even a starfish has to have part of the core remaining to regenerate.” “I think it will. If not, the body and head would probably have died immediately. Neither did, which is why I destroyed the head: I didn't want that mindless pseudo-cranium growing another body. Also, if I can coin a word, we occasionally tend to Earthomorphize, to give certain Earthly qualities to all forms of non-Earthly life. It seems unlikely to me that any creature could survive with its head severed, but the fact remains that it is indeed surviving. However, the really major problem still remains.” “And what is that?” asked Hammett.
“The new brain won't know that it's an ambassador, or that we saved its life—so I think we'd better prepare for a little war.”
10: THE POLITICIANS
...Thus it was that, toward the end of the Democracy's first millennium, a wave of sentiment swept across the human worlds and colonies of the galaxy. Long had they waited for Man to reestablish what they considered to be his rightful position of primacy among the sentient races, and the prevailing mood was almost akin to that ancient credo of “Manifest Destiny.” And, indeed, it was fast becoming manifest that Man had served his galactic apprenticeship and would no longer be content to play a secondary role in the scheme of things.
It was at the height of this crisis of conflicting philosophies and overviews that Joshua Bellows (2943-3009 G.E.) be
gan his meteoric rise to power. Immensely popular with the masses, he was originally opposed and later lauded by certain elements within his own party. For if it is true that great events summon forth great leaders, then... —Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement ...That Bellows had considerable charm and charisma as a politician cannot be denied. However, those writings and tapes of his that still exist would seem to imply that he had neither the capacity nor, originally, the motivation to have accomplished what he did without
some powerful behind-the-throne assistance...
...Although the Democracy survived him by more than twelve centuries, there can be no doubt that Bellows was responsible for...
—Origin and History of the Sentient Races, Vol. 8 Josh Bellows sat behind a huge desk, its shining surface dotted here and there with papers and documents, a score of intercom buttons by his right arm. Immaculately tailored and groomed, he presented the ultimate picture of dignity, with his heavy shock of gray-black hair, the firm, hard line of his jaw, and the tiny smile wrinkles at the corners of his clear blue eyes. He looked every inch a leader of men, which was in fact what he was.
