The Galactic Gourmet sg-9 Page 10

  “Five here. Freak collision hell! Our missing Tralthan is riding on that thing. Oh man, that is one nice trick. But it’s going in too fast …”

  “Rescue team, can any of you intercept?”

  “Rescue One. No, not before it hits. We’re all moving in the wrong direction. Hull tractor beam, can you soft land it?”

  “Negative, One. We won’t be operational for another ten minutes.”

  “Then forget it and clear the area in case it lands on top of you.”

  “I don’t think so, One. We’ve computed its trajectory and think it will make it through the airlock. That Tralthan knows how to …”

  “Rescue One. All internal tractor beamers switch to pressor mode. Catch it as it comes in. Decontamination and medical teams stand by …”

  His heartbeat was becoming so rapid and thunderous that it was difficult to hear the rest of the conversation and, in spite of the blurring of his vision, he could see the bright opening into Bay Twelve rushing closer. The nutrient tanks propelling him were emptying themselves, but unevenly so that his bale was beginning a slow, lateral roll that was moving him towards the edge of the lock opening.

  For an instant Gurronsevas thought that he would pass through safely, but a corner of his vehicle struck the coaming and the whole bale disintegrated into its component tanks. Miraculously, he had escaped injury, but suddenly he was in the middle of about two hundred full and empty food tanks, all of them tumbling at high speed towards the inner wall of the unloading bay. Then he felt as if he had been punched all over his body as the immaterial rod of a pressor beam brought him to an abrupt halt, leaving the tanks to crash and burst against the inner wall. Those that were not already empty emptied themselves rapidly in all directions.

  One of them struck his chest as it spun past, not violently enough to cause pain, but suddenly his communicator transmit light came on. All it had needed was a solid thump.

  “Don’t leave it hanging up there, dammit,” said an authoritative voice. “Pull it into the personnel lock. Duty medic, stand by …”

  “Gurronsevas,” he said with great difficulty. “I need air, not medical attention, urgently.”

  “You’re talking to us …good!” came the reply. “Hang on, we’ll have you hooked up to a new tank in a few minutes.”

  Gurronsevas spent what seemed like a long time in the lock chamber having his protective garment cleaned of any possible chlorine contamination and removed, but his irritation was tempered by the fact that while the process was going on he was able to breathe again without difficulty, and think. The duty medic, a very officious Nidian, could not believe that he had escaped serious injury and wanted to transfer him to an observation ward, but that Gurronsevas would not allow. He compromised by allowing it to use its portable scanner on every square inch of his body.

  He had plenty of time to listen to the voices in his headset describing many interesting events that he was unable to see. They spoke of small, unpressurized vehicles being dispatched to examine and retrieve the dispersing cargo for the purpose of salvage or later safe disposal, of Trivennleth redocking and of the temporary, fast-setting sealant that was being applied to the warped freight lock and the preparations for unloading its remaining cargo.

  They did not mention Gurronsevas’s daring self-rescue again, he noted with some disappointment. Perhaps they were too busy.

  When the Nidian doctor finally released him, Gurronsevas asked directions to Bay Twelve’s operations center because there were words that he must say to the people there. The staff, who were mostly Earth-human, looked up at him as he entered. None of them spoke, nor did anyone smile. Placing his feet quietly against the floor to demonstrate politeness and the fact that he was at a psychological disadvantage, he walked across to the being who was occupying the supervisor’s position.

  “I wish to express my sincere gratitude for the part you and your subordinates played in my rescue,” said Gurronsevas formally. “And for any small way in which I may have contributed to your cargo accident, I tender my apologies.”

  “Any small way …!” began the supervisor. Then it shook its head and went on, “You saved your own life, Gurronsevas. And that idea of using the nutrient as a propulsion unit was, well, unique.”

  When it became plain that the Earth-human was not going to say anything else, Gurronsevas said, “Shortly after I joined the hospital I was told by an entity I shall not name, and whom I considered to be a culinary barbarian, that food is just fuel. I had not realized that it might be speaking the literal truth.”

  The supervisor smiled, but only for an instant, and the expressions of the others did not change. Gurronsevas did not need to be a Cinrusskin empath to know that he was not highly regarded by these people just then. But if they would not respond to a pleasantry, they could not refuse a polite request.

  He went on, “I have in mind to make some important changes to the food supply of the Hudlars, among others. To make them it is possible that I shall require the permission and cooperation of the hospital’s Chief Administrator. May I use your communicator? I want to talk to Colonel Skempton.”

  The supervisor swung its chair around to look through the observation window, a wall-sized sheet of transparent material as clear as air in the small areas where it was not covered with nutrient paint, at the team working on the damaged airlock, and at the littered and paint-splattered loading bay before turning back to face Gurronsevas.

  “I feel sure,” it said, “that Colonel Skempton will want to talk to you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  It soon became clear that the loading bay supervisor was not familiar with the workings of the Chief Administrator’s mind, because he was unable to talk to Colonel Skempton in spite of three attempts to do so. When Gurronsevas tried a fourth time, he was informed by a subordinate that the whole Gurronsevas problem had been passed to the Chief Psychologist who had been given Colonel Skempton’s recommendations for its solution, and it was Major O’Mara that Gurronsevas should speak to, without delay.

  The atmosphere in the Psychology Department’s outer office reminded him of a gathering in the Room of Dying around the remains of a respected friend, but neither Braithwaite, Lioren nor Cha Thrat had a chance to speak to him because Major O’Mara did not keep him waiting.

  “Chief Dietitian Gurronsevas,” O’Mara began without preamble, “you do not appear to realize the gravity of your position. Or are you about to tell me that you are innocent, and that you are right and everyone else wrong?”

  “Of course not,” said Gurronsevas. “I admit to bearing some responsibility for the accident, but only because I was in precisely the wrong place at the wrong time and in circumstances where an accident was likely to occur. I cannot be held entirely responsible for it because, as you must agree, unless an entity is given complete control over a situation it cannot be held completely responsible for what happens. I had little control and, therefore, much reduced responsibility.”

  For a long moment O’Mara stared up at him in silence. The crescents of fur above its eyes were drawn downwards into thick, grey lines and its lips were tightly pressed together so that respiration was taking place, quite audibly, through its nasal passages. Finally it spoke.

  “Regarding the matter of responsibility,” it said, “I require clarification. Shortly after the accident I was contacted by a Hudlar who said that it shares responsibility for the accident with you. What have you to say about that?”

  Gurronsevas hesitated. If the Hudlar medic was to become involved with the loading bay accident as well as a possible misdemeanor on the freighter, it might lose its internship at the hospital. The intern had been a well-mannered being, helpful with its suggestions regarding the Hudlar food problems and, no doubt, professionally competent or it would not have been accepted for training in Sector General.

  “The Hudlar is mistaken,” he said firmly. “It had business on board and accompanied me into Trivennleth, acting as my guide and advisor regarding some food
problems. It wanted to escort me back again, but I insisted that I could return alone. Since I am Chief Dietitian and it a junior intern it had no choice but to comply. In this matter the Hudlar is blameless.”

  “I understand,” said O’Mara. It made an untranslatable sound and added, “But you should also understand that I am not greatly impressed by acts of unselfishness or nobility of character. Very well, Gurronsevas, no official notice will be taken of your Hudlar intern’s earlier words to me, but only because, in this instance, a trouble shared will not be a trouble halved. Have you anything else to say in your own defense?”

  “No,” said Gurronsevas, “because there is nothing else that I have done wrong.”

  “Is that what you think?” said the Major.

  Gurronsevas ignored the question because he had already answered it. Instead he said, “There is another matter. For the continuance of my dietary improvements I require material which is not presently available in the hospital. But I am uncertain whether obtaining these supplies, which will have to be transported from many different worlds and will therefore incur considerable expense, is a simple matter of requisitioning them or one that will require special permission from the hospital authorities. If the latter, then it is only simple politeness that I ask the Chief Administrator in person. But for some reason Colonel Skempton refuses to talk to me or even …”

  O’Mara was holding up a hand. It said, “One reason is that I advised him against seeing you, at least until the emotional dust settles. But there are others. You did cause that mess in Bay Twelve. Not deliberately, of course, and a major contamination, depressurization and structural damage to the cargo lock and Trivennleth’s hold is expensive in maintenance time as well as the cost of—”

  “This is shameful!” Gurronsevas burst out. “If, through some miscarriage of the law and deformation of Monitor Corps’ regulations, I am to be held responsible for this damage, then I shall pay for it. I am not poor, but if I do not have sufficient funds, then deductions can be made from my salary until the cost is repaid in full.”

  “If you had the life span of a Groalterri,” said O’Mara, “that might be possible. But it isn’t, and in any case, you will not be asked to pay for the damage. It has been decided that the tractor-beamers have become so fast and proficient in their work that they may have grown a little over-confident, and their safety procedures are being tightened. Between the Corps budget and Trivennleth’s insurance brokers, the financial aspect will be taken care of and need not concern you. But there is another price that you are already paying and I’m not sure if you can afford it. You are losing your reserves of good will.

  “During your visit to Trivennleth and subsequent unscheduled EVA,” O’Mara went on, without allowing him time to speak, “less catastrophic events were taking place in the AUGL ward. The convalescent Chalders became overexcited while chasing their self-propelled lunch and, according to Charge Nurse Hredlichli, all but wrecked the ward. Specifically, eleven sections of internal wall plating were seriously deformed and four Chalder sleeping frames were damaged beyond repair, fortunately without ill effects to the patients occupying them at the time.

  “I know that Hredlichli is obligated to you,” the Major went on, “because of improvements you made in the Illensan menu, but at present I would not say that it considers itself to be your friend. The same situation exists with Lieutenant Timmins, who is responsible for repairing the damage not only to the Chalder ward but minor sub-structures in Bay Twelve.

  “But it is Colonel Skempton that you should worry about, and avoid meeting, because he wants you fired from the hospital and returned to your previous planet of origin. Forthwith.”

  For a moment Gurronsevas could not speak. It was as if his immobile, domed cranium were a dormant volcanic mountain about to split open under the double pressures of shame and fury over the fate that had allowed such a cruel injustice to be perpetrated on a being as professionally accomplished, and with so much to offer this establishment, as himself. But it was the feeling of shame which predominated, and so he forced himself to speak the only words that could be spoken in this situation.

  Gurronsevas turned to leave, making no attempt to muffle the sound of his feet, and said, “I shall tender my resignation, effective immediately.”

  “I have found,” said O’Mara in a voice that was quiet but somehow managed to halt Gurronsevas in mid-turn, “that words like forthwith and immediately are used very loosely. Consider.

  “A ship bound for Traltha or Nidia or wherever else you decide to go,” the Chief Psychologist went on, “may not call at Sector General for several weeks; or, if you choose to go to an obscure Tralthan colony-world infrequently visited by commercial or Monitor Corps vessels, for much longer than that. The delay would enable you to complete any current projects before you have to leave. This would benefit the hospital, provided you do not involve it in any more near-catastrophes. And you personally would benefit because the longer you spend here the less likely it will seem to outsiders, including your colleagues in the multi-species hotel business, that your separation from Sector General was involuntary and your professional reputation would suffer minimum damage.

  “Insofar as it is possible for a Tralthan,” O’Mara continued, showing its teeth briefly, “try to keep a low profile. Do nothing to attract Colonel Skempton’s attention, nor annoy anyone else in authority, and you will find that your departure will be something less than immediate.”

  “But eventually,” said Gurronsevas, making a statement rather than a question, “I will have to go.”

  “The Colonel insisted that you leave the hospital soonest,” it said, “and I promised that you would. Had I not done so you would have been confined to quarters.”

  The Chief Psychologist sat back in its chair, giving a clear, non-verbal indication that the interview was at an end. Gurronsevas remained where he was.

  “I understand,” he said. “And I would like to say that you have shown sensitivity and concern for my feelings in this situation. Your reaction is, well, surprising and confusing, because I could not imagine an entity with your reputation acting in such a sympathetic fashion …”

  He broke off in embarrassment, aware that the attempt to express his gratitude was verging on the insulting. O’Mara sat forward in its chair again.

  “Let me dispel some of your confusion,” it said. “I am, of course, aware of your covert tinkering with my menu, and have been from the beginning. And no, the outer office staff did not betray you. You forget that I am a psychologist, and the type of continuous, non-verbal signals they were emitting was impossible to hide from me. And you betrayed yourself by significantly improving the taste of meals which were formerly so tasteless that I could safely engage my mind with more important matters while eating. But not any more. Valuable time is wasted wondering what new culinary surprise lies in ambush, or speculating afterwards on precisely how you achieved a particular taste. Not all of your changes were for the better, and I have sent you a list of my reactions to all of them together with suggestions for further modifications.”

  “That is most kind of you, sir,” said Gurronsevas.

  “I am not being kind,” said O’Mara sharply. “Nor sympathetic, nor do I possess any of the other qualities you are trying to attribute to me. I have no reason to be grateful to a being who is merely doing its job. Is there anything else you want to say to me before you leave?”

  “No,” said Gurronsevas.

  He could hear the movable furniture and O’Mara’s desk ornaments rattling as he stamped out of the office.

  “What happened?” said Cha Thrat when the door had closed behind him. From the way they were staring at him, it was obvious that the Sommaradvan was speaking for Lioren and Braithwaite as well.

  Anger and embarrassment made it difficult for Gurronsevas to keep his voice at a conversational level as he replied, “I am to leave the hospital, not immediately but soon. Until then I am to do my job, as O’Mara calls it, withou
t attracting attention to myself. I’m afraid the Major knows that you cooperated with me in making the menu changes. It was pleased with them but not grateful. Will any of you suffer because of the conspiracy?”

  Braithwaite shook its head. “If O’Mara had wanted us to suffer, we’d have known about it by now. But try to look on the bright side, Gurronsevas, and do as he says. After all, the Major seems to approve of some of the things you are doing and wants you to continue doing them. If he had been displeased, well, you would not have been leaving soon but on the first ship going anywhere. You don’t know what will happen.”

  “I know,” said Gurronsevas miserably, “that Colonel Skempton wants to get rid of me.”

  “Perhaps,” said Lioren gently, “you could covertly introduce substances into the Colonel’s meals which would eliminate the problem by—”

  “Padre!” said Braithwaite.

  “I did not mean substances of lethal toxicity,” Lioren went on, “but taste-enhancers similar to those used on Major O’Mara. There is a saying current among Earth-human DBDGs that the way to a man’s heart lies through its stomach.”

  “Surely,” said Cha Thrat, “a questionable and risky surgical procedure.”

  “I’ll explain it to you later, Cha Thrat,” said Braithwaite, smiling. “Lioren, psychologically that is sound advice, but Skempton is unlikely to be influenced as easily by Gurronsevas’s cooking. His psych file says he is a vegetarian, which means that—”

  “Now that I don’t understand,” Cha Thrat broke in again. “Why should a member of the DBDG classification, which is omnivorous, elect to become a herbivore? Especially when the basic food material is synthetic anyway. Is it some kind of religious requirement?”

  “Perhaps,” Lioren replied, “it has beliefs similar to the Ull, who say that to eat the flesh of another creature, sentient or otherwise, is to preserve its soul within the eater. But the Colonel has never consulted me on religious matters so I am unable to speak with certainty.”