The Galactic Gourmet sg-9 Read online

  Gurronsevas wondered what Lioren would have noticed if it had been looking closely. He said, “Did Braithwaite make any comment about the food, during or after eating the meal?”

  “Yes,” said Lioren, “but there was nothing unusual about that. A few other beings, not Earth-humans, had ordered the same meal and commented on it in my hearing. Some of the warm-blooded oxy-breathers here are in the habit of crossing the species divide in search of new taste sensations, and the practice has increased since your menu changes were incorporated. This is highly complimentary to yourself, or has been until …”

  “Just tell me what Braithwaite said,” Gurronsevas broke in. “Everything.”

  “I am trying to remember,” said Lioren, with a Tarlan gesture that might have signified irritation. “Oh, yes. Braithwaite said that the meal had a peculiar, gritty taste, and that this was strange because it had ordered the same course on previous occasions without noticing anything odd about it. It also said that you were continually experimenting with the menu, that the latest change was probably an acquired taste, but if so, it was not masochistic enough to want to acquire it. The remainder of the meal was eaten quickly and silently because it did not want to be late for the meeting.

  “On the way back to the department,” Lioren continued, “it complained of feeling what it called queasy, and self-diagnosed the trouble as a digestive upset caused by it eating too fast. The meeting a short time later, comprising O’Mara, Braithwaite and Cha Thrat, was concerned with the psych profiles of the latest group of trainees. Because department business was being discussed rather than a personal interview, the connecting door had not been closed. I heard but did not see all that ensued. Cha Thrat filled in the visual details later.”

  Lioren made a series of small, untranslatable sounds, then cleared its breathing passages noisily and went on, “My apologies, Gurronsevas, this is not a laughing matter. Braithwaite began complaining of growing nausea, but answered Cha Thrat’s sympathetic questions about its condition with loud abuse, calling O’Mara and Cha Thrat names that are not in polite usage, after which it became creatively if unintentionally insubordinate towards the Major, and ended by regurgitating onto the printouts covering the desktop. Soon afterwards Braithwaite began to lose both coherency of speech and muscular coordination in its limbs, and O’Mara had it transferred to a ward for clinical investigation. By that time the wards were filling up with similar cases.

  “That was forty-three hours ago. Even though all of the patients affected have shown an almost complete remission of symptoms, since then the Major has been spending as much time as possible with Braithwaite, trying to establish whether its assistant’s abnormal behavior was due to a new pathogen that has invaded and attacked the brain functions of those affected, which is the theory favored by the senior medical staff, or a side effect of food-poisoning which is the solution preferred by myself.

  “If I am wrong it is better that you stay out of sight and, hopefully, beyond reach of the infection,” Lioren ended. “If I am right, then the Chief Psychologist will not be pleased with you.”

  Nobody here is pleased with the Great Gurronsevas, he thought. At least, they do not stay pleased for long. He tried to fight against the wave of anger and disappointment that was sweeping over his mind by concentrating on what for him could only be a minor culinary puzzle.

  “I will need to access the food service program,” he said briskly. “But do not concern yourself, it will not require giving my identity.”

  Lioren’s description had enabled him to identify the suspect meal, and given a close estimate of the time that the infection — if that was what it was — had occurred. The number of all meals selected were listed and stored on a daily basis so as to indicate current demand and to facilitate re-ordering and withdrawal of the non-synthetic material from stores. Diners’ choices were subject to psychological factors — personal recommendations of an item by one’s friends, the latest eating fad, a new entry on the menu that everyone wanted to try — which ensured that the total number of any given meal ordered would vary from day to day. But he knew the day and the suspect course, and now the number he was looking for was being displayed. He was tapping in the list of ingredients and requesting their full biochemical analyses when suddenly Lioren moved closer to the display screen.

  “Any progress?” it said, in the voice of one who already knew and did not like the answer.

  “Yes and no,” he replied, moving an eye towards Lioren. “I am fairly sure that the suspect meal has been identified, and of the number of times it was served, but the …”

  “You can be absolutely sure,” said Lioren. “I know the total ward admission figure for the outbreak. It agrees exactly with yours. This does not look good for you, Gurronsevas.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, pointing angrily at the display. “But look at that. The meal ingredients are innocent, uncomplicated and completely innocuous, and prepared according to my instructions. After processing and shaping in the synthesizer only three non-synthetic ingredients were added. These were trace quantities of the Orligian and Earth herbs chrysse and Merne Lake salt in the sauce and a light, overall dusting of nutmeg. None of them could have caused food poisoning. Could toxic material have been introduced externally, perhaps by a seepage of waste contaminants from adjoining piping …? I must speak directly and at once to my first assistant.”

  “You must not call anyone within the hospital …” Lioren began, but Gurronsevas ignored it.

  “Main Synthesizer, Senior Food Technician Sarnyagh,” said the Nidian whose features appeared on-screen. If its expression was surprised, irritated, or worried at seeing him, Gurronsevas was unable to tell under the facial fur. Inevitably it said, “Sir, I thought you had left the hospital.”

  “I have,” said Gurronsevas impatiently. “Please be quiet, and listen …”

  As soon as he had finished speaking, Sarnyagh said impatiently, “Sir, that was the first question asked after the trouble developed. We called in our entire staff and spent the next two shifts answering it, even though Maintenance assured us that the layout and design of the associated plumbing made such cross-contamination impossible. We also checked the food synthesizer banks and enhancer storage, all of which tested pure. Have you any other ideas, sir?”

  “No,” said Gurronsevas, breaking contact. His earlier anxiety was fast approaching desperation, but there was a vague idea stirring at the back of his mind that was refusing to come out into the light, a tiny itch left by something the food technician might have said. To Lioren he went on, “If the fault isn’t in the delivery system then it must be in the meal, which it isn’t. Maybe I should make a closer study of the ingredients, even though they have been in use for centuries on and off their planets of origin. I will need the non-medical reference library.”

  There was a bewildering mass of information available on food herbs even in the comparatively small general library possessed by Sector General, and finding the three he wanted required a careful search through background material which, even with computer assistance, was very slow. He learned much interesting but useless information about the part played in the Kelgian local economy by their exports of Merne Lake salt, but the only associated fatalities had occurred during the dawn of their history when warring natives had drowned in it while it was still a body of water. It was the same with the Orligian chrysse polyps, and the references to Earth nutmeg were many but lacking in useful detail, until he came on one very old entry that might have been included as an afterthought.

  Suddenly the itch at the back of his mind came out to a place where he could scratch it. His kitchen staff had been under pressure from the medical hierarchy. In the middle of a sudden emergency, a small change might be made, forgotten, or be considered too minor to be mentioned to a superior. Suddenly Gurronsevas stamped all of his feet, heavily and one at a time.

  When the loose equipment on the casualty deck had stopped rattling, Lioren said, “Gurronsevas, what is
happening? What is wrong with you?”

  “What is happening,” he replied, tapping the communicator keys as if each one was a mortal enemy, “is that I am trying to recall that miscenegenated apology for a food technician, Sarnyagh. What is wrong with me is that I want to commit violent bloody murder on another supposedly sapient being!”

  “Surely not!” said Lioren in a shocked voice. “Please calm yourself. I feel, and I am sure that you will agree, that you may be overreacting verbally to a situation that in all likelihood might not require physical violence to resolve …”

  It broke off as Sarnyagh’s image reappeared. In a voice that was composed of equal parts of deference and impatience, the food technician said, “Sir. Was there something you had forgotten to ask me?”

  Gurronsevas sought for inner calm, then said, “I refer you to my original instructions regarding the composition and presentation of Menu Item Eleven Twenty-one, Earth-human DBDG species, and additionally suitable for use by and available on request to physiological classifications DBLF, DCNF, DBPK, EGCL, ELNT, FGLI and GLNO. Compare the original composition with that of the meals actually served following taste enhancement and display both. Explain why an unauthorized change was made.”

  And if no change had been made, Gurronsevas was about to be very seriously embarrassed. But he felt sure that he would not be.

  Sarnyagh looked down at its console and tapped briefly. Two short columns of data appeared as a bright overlay across its furry chest, with two of the quantity figures highlighted.

  “Ah, yes, now I remember,” said Sarnyagh. “It was a small change, or rather a correction of an error which it seemed that you yourself had made. If you can remember, sir, your menu instructions for this ingredient specified point zero eight five of the dish’s total food mass which was, with respect, a ridiculously small quantity for something that is listed as an edible vegetation, so I assumed that the amount that you had intended was eight point five. Was I mistaken? Too cautious, perhaps?”

  “You were mistaken,” said Gurronsevas, striving not to scream abuse at it and to keep his voice at a conversational level, “and not cautious enough. Couldn’t you tell by the taste that something was wrong?”

  Sarnyagh hesitated, obviously suspecting that it might be in trouble and trying in advance to talk its way out of it, then said quickly, “I regret, sir, that I have neither your vast culinary experience nor your unrivalled ability to taste and evaluate a wide variety of other-species dishes. My preference is for the simple home cooking of Nidia and an occasional venture onto the Kelgian cold menu. The few times I tried it, I found Earth food to be lumpy, with too many color contrasts and aesthetically repugnant, so I would not have known whether it tasted right or wrong. Even though the change was minor and I would have asked your permission before making it had you been available, it was not made without careful consideration.

  “Before making the change,” Sarnyagh went on, “I checked with the medical computer to make sure that the item was not listed as toxic, which it was not. Also, the kitchen supply which you had brought with you from the Cromingan-Shesk had been running low. When I ordered a top-up I discovered that Stores had recently received several tons of the stuff. At the rate of use you had specified there was enough to keep us supplied for centuries. That was when I decided that you had made a mistake and corrected it. Have you any further instructions, sir?”

  The reason for the overstocking had been purely administrative and of questionable legality, Gurronsevas remembered. It had been a means of ordering in bulk so that the material would be covered by the virtually inexhaustible supply funding of the Monitor Corps rather than his own department’s relatively low budget. But he could not mention that without word of the transgression reaching Skempton through official channels; he did not want that to happen even if, as seemed likely, the Colonel already knew of it unofficially. No blame should attach itself to the Head of Procurement, Creon-Emesh, who had been most helpful to him. And Sarnyagh had done a neat job of passing most of the responsibility for its mistake back to Gurronsevas, and the food technician was going to get away with it.

  He was reminded of the times in his own youth when he had learned the hard way that one’s seniors had been placed above him because they knew more, not less, than their ambitious subordinates.

  “My instructions,” said Gurronsevas coldly, “are to reverse your unauthorized change and restore Eleven Twenty-one DBDG to its original composition. Do it at once. I am very displeased with you, Sarnyagh, but any disciplinary action that is needed must wait until …”

  “But, sir!” Sarnyagh broke in. “This is unfair, petty. Because I made a harmless change on my own initiative and you think, wrongly I assure you, that it is a threat to your authority you are going to …Sir, there is much more important and urgent work to be done here. Following recent instructions of Diagnosticians Thornnastor and Conway we are in the process of physically checking through our entire food preparation and delivery system for possible entry points for contamination. Impossible, I know, but there has been a major outbreak of what they think might be food poisoning and …”

  “That particular problem,” said Gurronsevas firmly, “has been solved. Just do as I say.”

  When Sarnyagh’s image disappeared, he went on to Lioren, “Perhaps I will not murder it, after all. But if you could tell me how to inflict some non-lethal injuries requiring a lengthy and uncomfortable period of recuperation, I would be grateful.”

  “I hope you are joking,” said Lioren uncertainly. “But is the problem really solved? And how?”

  “I am joking,” he replied. “And yes, your epidemic of so-called food poisoning is over. I’ll tell you about it quickly so that you can contact Diagnostician Conway at once. It was a simple matter of …”

  “No, Gurronsevas,” Lioren interrupted gently. “This is your specialty. Conway is one of the few people who knows you are here. You will save time by telling it yourself.”

  A few minutes later, Diagnostician Conway was staring intently at him from the screen as he began to describe the unauthorized change that had been made in DBDG Menu Eleven Twenty-one.

  He went on, “It occurred because of my then ignorance, which has been rectified within the past few minutes, regarding a little-known side effect of the Earth herb, nutmeg, which is a taste enhancer that I like to use with this particular dish. Although it is no longer listed as a toxic substance, probably because its unpleasant gastric side effects when taken in quantity made it unpopular as a drug, in the distant past nutmeg was known as a mild hallucinogen. That was many centuries ago, when the use of mind-damaging drugs was common in several cultures. The quantity used in meal DBDG Eleven Twenty-one was one hundred times the specified amount. The Earth-human DBDGs and other species, taking it for the first time in these quantities, would be likely to suffer from progressively increasing hallucinations, lack of physical and mental coordination and nausea of the type that has been described to me.

  “The error is being rectified as we speak,” Gurronsevas added, “and the DBDG food service operation will be fully restored within the next two hours. The symptoms will fade rapidly and, according to the historical reference, the recovery of non-habitual users, your patients, will be complete within a few days. I am certain that your emergency is over.”

  For a moment Diagnostician Conway was silent except for the sound made by a long, slow exhalation of breath. Its recessed eyes swiveled to look past Gurronsevas at Lioren and the casualty deck behind them, then it smiled and said, “So you were right after all, Padre Lioren, and we were frightening ourselves needlessly over a widespread but basically simple digestive upset. And you, Gurronsevas, have solved our problem within a few minutes without even being here. That was nice work, Chief Dietitian. But what do you suggest we do with the food technician responsible?”

  “Nothing,” said Gurronsevas. “I have always accepted responsibility for the professional conduct, including the few mistakes, of my subordinates.
Sarnyagh will be disciplined if and when I return.”

  Behind him Lioren made a quiet, untranslatable sound. Conway nodded and said, “I understand. But your return may not be for some time. Now that the epidemic scare is over, we will be launching Rhabwar within the hour.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Following Lioren’s lengthy farewell, and even lengthier exhortations against exercising his initiative too freely and the necessity for making friends, Gurronsevas had so much to think about that only a few minutes seemed to pass before there came another, expected interruption. It was the sound of movement forward, suggesting that several people were entering the ship through the crew access lock, and one of them was moving aft along the central well on the way to the Power Room. Simultaneously, another group entered the other end of the boarding tube and approached rapidly. From the babble of other-species word sounds he estimated that there were four different voices, but they were speaking too quietly for his translator to separate them. Quickly he dimmed the lighting, raised the bed-screen and concealed himself behind it.

  As they entered the casualty deck the lighting came on at full intensity, the voices fell silent and there was the loud, unmistakable hiss and thump of the airlock closing.

  The lengthening silence was broken by a voice speaking quietly in the musical trills and clickings of its native Cinrusskin speech, so that the translated words were unnecessary for the identification of the speaker.

  “I sense your presence close by, my friend,” said Prilicla. “At present and until the hyperspace insertion is complete, the casualty deck will not be in sound or vision contact with Control. You are among friends, Gurronsevas, so please lower that screen and show yourself.”