The Galactic Gourmet sg-9 Read online

  The Galactic Gourmet

  ( Sector General - 9 )

  James White

  The Galactic Gourmet is a 1996 science fiction book by author James White and is part of the Sector General series.

  Todd Richmond wrote that the Sector General series declined after Star Healer (1985), hitting a low point with The Galactic Gourmet, and that the later books tended to stretch a short story’s worth of content to the length of a novel. However he thought that Mind Changer (1998) represented an improvement.

  A famous chef wangles an appointment to Sector General for the challenge of creating food for so many different species. Like the Sommaradvan healer Cha Thrat (Code Blue — Emergency), he creates chaos everywhere he goes.

  He first meets the swimming "crocodile-like" Chaldars, who complain that their food is unsatisfying. Realising that they are accustomed to capturing their food live, he develops motile food for them. They are delighted, but they completely destroy their hospital ward charging around chasing it.

  Next, he learns that the spray-on food used to nourish the Hudlar is uninteresting. His investigations show that it needs small toxins to "flavor" it, which would be found naturally on their home planet. He visits a Hudlar ship, but causes a huge cargo bay accident expelling him into space. He rescues himself by riding some sprayers back to the station, but is in everyone’s bad books.

  Sympathetic staffers hide him on the ambulance ship Rhabwar for an upcoming assignment. In the meantime, an epidemic at the hospital turns out to be a major nutmeg overdose caused by a sous-chef foolishly using ten times the required amount in a recipe.

  The Rhabwar is sent to a starving planet, whose people think their dwindling meat supply is the only desirable food and are shamed by its lack. He is able to commune with their first Cook better than the diplomats are doing. He finds ways to improve their sad vegetarian diet, and helps to set more positive attitudes toward it. The Cook’s son is wounded on a game-hunting expedition, and the medical ship takes him on board for healing. The populace grows very angry, mystifying the team. They finally recall the aliens’ cannibal tradition and produce him alive.

  James White

  The Galactic Gourmet

  Sector General 09

  CHAPTER 1

  Gurronsevas had long been accustomed to being accorded the outward forms of respect by persons nominally his superior, and usually it was because of his enormous physical strength and body mass, rather than his less obvious attributes of high intelligence and unrivalled professional experience. Being invited to view the final approach from the courier vessel’s tiny control deck was a courtesy rarely extended to a ship’s passenger even when, as in his own case, he was the only one. But he wished heartily that the Captain had shown less politeness and more consideration by allowing him to complete the voyage in Tennochlan’s uncluttered and much roomier cargo hold.

  He watched in polite silence and mounting awe, his physical discomfort forgotten, as the gigantic, complex structure that was Sector Twelve General Hospital grew larger until the forward view-screen was entirely filled by the breathtaking sight of dazzling, regimented lines of approach beacons, dock floodlighting, and the external ports and ward-viewing galleries that were ablaze with every color and intensity of light that the occupants considered normal.

  Beside him Captain Mallan showed its teeth briefly and made the untranslatable, barking sound which among Earth-humans signified humor. It said, “Enjoy the view while you can. The people who work here rarely get the chance to see the outside of their world.”

  The other officers on the flight deck maintained the silence of subordinates and, there being nothing of importance that he wished to say, Gurronsevas joined them.

  Suddenly the image disappeared to be replaced by a picture of a pale-green Illensan chlorine-breather whose outlines were partially concealed by the yellow fog inside its protective envelope. It was seated at a communications console, and the flat, translated voice still retained some of the hissing and moaning quality of the original word-sounds as it spoke.

  “Reception,” it said quickly. “Identify yourselves, please. State whether patient, visitor, or staff, and give species. If there is an emergency condition please give patient clinical details first, then the physiological classifications of the others so we can arrange suitable accommodation, life-support, and proper type and periodicity of meals.”

  “Meals,” said the Captain, looking at Gurronsevas and showing its teeth again. It pressed the transmit stud and said briskly, “No medical emergency on board. I am Major Mallan, commanding Monitor Corps scoutship Tennochlan, courier flight from Retlin on Nidia. Crew of four, all Earth-human DBDG classification plus one passenger, Gurronsevas, a Tralthan FGLI joining the hospital staff. All are warm-blooded oxygen-breathers and this one, myself, would certainly appreciate a change from ship rations …”

  “Wait,” said Reception, who plainly was not disposed to waste time discussing the subject of Earth-human food, the ingestion of which would have been instantly lethal to an Illensan. The image of the hospital structure returned to the screen, looking closer and even more impressive, but only for a moment.

  “Please follow the red-yellow-red beacons to the vacant Class Three docking cradle adjoining Lock Twenty-three,” it went on briskly. “Monitor Corps officers will report to Colonel Skempton. Gurronsevas will be met by Lieutenant Timmins on arrival.”

  Was this another courtesy, Gurronsevas wondered, from a being who might or might not consider itself his superior? Somehow he doubted it. The being in Reception had not been impressed by his name, yet they must have heard of him even amidst the poisonous yellow fog of chlorine-breathing Illensa. But there had been no mention of the famous or the renowned or the great Gurronsevas, whose name and unique ability was admired and debated by the cultured members of every warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing species in the Federation, and whose unique contribution to and presence on any one of their home worlds would have been a matter for planetary pride. There had merely been the brief statement that Gurronsevas would be met.

  A lesser being than himself might have felt uncertain, or even insulted.

  The entity Timmins turned out to be an Earth-human DBDG whose dark-green uniform coveralls, although clean and well-pressed, were so well-worn that the insignia of rank were all but invisible. Its head fur was the color of dull copper, it showed its teeth readily in the non-aggressive grimace its species called a smile, and its manner was brisk and moderately respectful.

  “Welcome on board, sir,” it said when the introductions had been performed. “Technically, Sector General is too small to be a planet and too large to be a star-going vessel, but a ship is how the purists like to refer to it when we are not calling it something much more derogatory. As soon as convenient I had planned to show you to your quarters and explain the equipment and functioning. As Head of Maintenance your environmental control systems are a part of my responsibility, but Major O’Mara would like to see you in his office sooner than that. Allowing for traffic density in the intervening corridors, and a delay while changing to lightweight protective envelopes for the short-cut through the level of the chlorine-breathing PVSJs, it should take about twenty minutes. On the way you can have the usual but usually inadequate briefing given to a new arrival.

  “With your permission, sir,” he added, “I’ll lead the way and talk as we walk.”

  As Gurronsevas followed Timmins out of the lock antechamber and along the boarding tube and into the hospital proper, the Lieutenant apologized in advance in case he was imparting information already known to him, and explained that Sector General was the largest, most technologically advanced and professionally respected multi-environment hospital ever to come i
nto being. Many planetary cultures had contributed to its building, fabricating sections and transporting them over a period of nearly two decades to the assembly area in Galactic Sector Twelve. It was supplied and maintained by the Monitor Corps, the Federation’s executive and law-enforcement arm, but it was not and never would be a military establishment. In its three hundred and eighty-four levels could be reproduced the environments of all of the life-forms known to the Galactic Federation, a physiological spectrum ranging from the ultra-frigid methane life-forms through the more normal oxygen- and chlorine-breathing types to the more exotic beings who lived by the direct conversion of hard radiation.

  Gurronsevas missed a few of the Lieutenant’s words because he was being forced to concentrate a large proportion of his attention on avoiding injury or embarrassment by colliding with or walking on entities larger or smaller than himself. He was travelling inside a combination white-walled, three-dimensional maze, and a noisy and overcrowded extra-terrestrial menagerie, and soon he would be expected to find his own way through it.

  Two crab-like Melfan ELNTs and an Illensan PVSJ chittered and hissed their displeasure at him as he stopped awkwardly in the middle of an intersection to let them pass. In so doing he jostled a tiny, red-furred Nidian who barked a reproof at him. But the simple translator that he had been given on Tennochlan was programmed only for Earth-human/Tralthan speech, so that he did not know what exactly anyone within earshot was whistling, cheeping, growling or moaning at him.

  “… Theoretically the staff member possessing the greater medical seniority has right of way,” Timmins was saying, “and you will soon learn to identify the different ranks from the color markings on the arm-bands that everyone wears. As yet you have no armband, so your rank is uncertain… Quickly, please, move flat against the wall!”

  A great hissing and clanking juggernaut that was nearly half the width of the corridor was bearing down on them. It was the mobile protective armor used by SNLU medics, who normally breathed superheated steam, and whose pressure and gravity requirements were many times greater than that of the — to them, lethal — environment of the oxygen-breathing levels. In a situation like this, Timmins said with a brief show of teeth, it was better to ignore differences in rank, allow the instinct for self-preservation to take over, and get out of the way fast.

  “You are adapting to the situation here very well, sir,” the Lieutenant went on. “I have known first-time visitors to the hospital who went into a panic reaction, they ran and hid themselves or froze into fear paralysis, when confronted with so many different life-forms in such a short space of time. I think you will do well.”

  “Thank you,” said Gurronsevas. Normally he would not have volunteered personal information to another person on first acquaintance, but the Earth-human and its compliment had pleased him. He went on, “But the experience is not entirely strange to me, Lieutenant. It is similar to the situation during a multi-species convention, although there the delegates were not usually so well-mannered.”

  “Really?” said Timmins, and laughed. “But if I were you I would reserve judgment on their manners, at least until after you are issued with your multi-channel translator. You don’t know what some of them have been calling you. We’re within a few minutes of the Psychology Department now.”

  On this level, Gurronsevas noted, the corridors were much less crowded but, strangely, their progress was less rapid. For some reason the Earth-human was slowing his previously fast walking pace.

  “Before you go in,” said Timmins suddenly, in the manner of one who has come to a decision, “it might be a good idea if you knew something about the entity you are about to meet, Major O’Mara.”

  “It might prove helpful,” Gurronsevas agreed.

  “He is the hospital’s Chief Psychologist,” Timmins went on. “What I believe your species calls a Healer of the Mind. As such he is responsible for the smooth and efficient operation of the ten-thousand-odd, sometimes very odd, members of the medical and maintenance staff …”

  Taking into consideration the very high levels of species toleration and professional respect among its personnel, the Lieutenant explained, and in spite of the careful psychological screening they all had to undergo before being accepted for service in a multi-environment hospital, there were still situations when serious inter-species and interpersonal friction could occur. Potentially dangerous situations could occur through simple ignorance or misunderstanding or, more seriously, an entity could develop a xenophobic neurosis towards a patient or colleague which might affect its professional competence or mental stability. It was O’Mara and his department’s duty to detect and eradicate such problems or, as a last resort, to remove the potentially troublesome individual from the hospital. There were times when this constant watch for signs of wrong, unhealthy or intolerant thinking, which the Major and his staff performed with such dedication, made them the most disliked beings in the hospital.

  “… For administrative reasons,” Timmins continued, “O’Mara bears the rank of Major in the Monitor Corps. There are many officers and medical staff here who are nominally his senior, but keeping so many different and potentially antagonistic life-forms working together in harmony is a big job whose limits, like those of O’Mara’s authority, are difficult to define.”

  “I have long understood,” said Gurronsevas, “the difference between rank and authority.”

  “That’s good,” said Timmins, pointing at the large door they were approaching. “This is the Department of Other-Species Psychology. After you, sir.”

  He found himself in a large outer office containing four desk consoles ranged on each side of a broad, clear stretch of floor leading to an inner door. Only three of the desks were occupied — by a Tarlan, a Sommaradvan, and another Monitor Corps officer of the same rank and species as Timmins. The Tarlan and Sommaradvan remained bent over their work, but each curled an eye inquisitively in his direction, and the other officer looked at him Earth-human fashion with both its eyes. Placing his six feet as gently as possible against the floor so as to minimize undue noise and vibration, a politeness he practiced among lower-gravity entities in confined surroundings, he moved further into the room.

  He remained silent because in these circumstances he did not consider it proper to speak to any subordinate person until he had first spoken to their superior.

  Timmins said briskly, “Gurronsevas, newly arrived on Tennochlan, to see the Major.”

  The other officer smiled and said, “He is waiting for you, Gurronsevas. Please go in. Alone.”

  The inner door slid open and Timmins said quietly, “Good luck, sir.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The inner office of the Chief Psychologist was larger than the outer one, Gurronsevas saw, and if anything it resembled a well-appointed torture chamber from his native Traltha’s pre-civilized past. Ranged around the walls and encroaching towards the center of the floor, and in two cases hanging from the ceiling, was a weird and wonderful assortment of furniture that was designed to enable the different species with business in the office to sit, lie, curl up, or hang at ease. As a member of a species who preferred to work, eat, sleep and do everything else standing on its six feet (except on occasions when eye-level other-species social intercourse was necessary), Gurronsevas found these office accessories of marginal interest. That was why he moved without hesitation to stand in the clear area of floor before the rotatable desk console at which sat this entity of indeterminate authority, O’Mara.

  Gurronsevas directed all of his eyes towards O’Mara but remained silent. The Major knew who he was so it was unnecessary to introduce himself, and he wanted it to be established from the beginning, at the risk of committing a minor act of insubordination or impoliteness, that he was a person of strong will who would not be forced into making unnecessary conversation.

  The Major appeared to be old (as Earth-humans counted their years), although the head-fur and hairy crescents shading its eyes were grey rather than white. I
ts facial features and the two hands resting on top of the desk remained motionless while it was returning his gaze. The silence lengthened until suddenly it nodded its head. When it spoke it did not use either his name or its own.

  There had been a brief and silent contest of wills, but Gurronsevas was not sure who had won it.

  “I must begin by welcoming you to Sector General,” said O’Mara, and not once did he allow the flaps of skin that protected and lubricated its eyes to drop. “We both realize that these words are nothing more than a polite formality because your presence here was not requested by the hospital, nor is it as the result of unusually high medical or technical aptitude. You are here because someone in Federation Medical Administration had a rush of brains to the head and sent you, leaving us to discover whether or not the idea is viable. Is that a fair summation of the situation?”

  “No,” said Gurronsevas. “I was not sent, I volunteered.”

  “A technicality,” said O’Mara, “and possibly an aberration on your part. Why did you want to come here? And please don’t repeat the material in your original submission. It is long, detailed, most impressive, and probably accurate; but very often the facts contained in documents of this kind are shaded in favor of the applicant. Not that I am suggesting that deliberate falsification has taken place, just that an element of fiction is present. You have no previous hospital experience?”

  “You know I haven’t,” Gurronsevas replied, resisting an urge to stamp his feet in irritation. “I do not consider that a bar to the performance of my duties.”

  O’Mara nodded. “But tell me, in as few words as possible: did you want to work here?”

  “I do not work,” said Gurronsevas, raising and lowering two of his feet with enough force to make the floor-mounted furniture in the room vibrate. “I am neither an artisan nor a technician. I am an artist.”