Mind Changer sg-12 Read online

  Braithwaite’s eyes flickered toward the undecorated collar and empty shoulder tabs on O’Mara’s tunic; then they returned to his face.

  Still smiling, he said, “Force of habit. Besides, I have been known to extend that same courtesy to members of the civilian staff, if they deserve it. But, well, how do you feel about it, sir?”

  Braithwaite’s tone sounded concerned as well as curious, O’Mara noted, so perhaps his customary dour lack of expression had slipped a little. He ignored the question but contrived to answer it anyway.

  “If my aging and no doubt untrustworthy memory serves me correctly,” he said sourly, “Cresk-Sar has a half-hour appointment with me in twenty-five minutes. Use the time to refuel in the dining hall. As soon as the senior physician leaves, I want to see all three of you together to discuss in detail my feelings about this situation and how it will affect the department. Meanwhile, Lieutenant, sit down and finish those psych file updates.”

  As usual, Gurronsevas had ensured that his lunch would be the most enjoyable period of the day. The chief dietician and former renowned multi-species chef de cuisine had caused an awful lot of trouble during its first few weeks at Sector General, and had come very close to being pitched out on its large, Tralthan ear, so it was continually trying to return the favor it thought it owed him for saving it from that fate. It was a good time to think unpleasant thoughts and allow the pleasure of the meal to dilute them.

  Occasionally he had thought about his age and the dreadful inevitability of his having to retire someday from Sector General, the world he had helped build and the only life he had known since his early twenties. He had been an immensely strong young man then, and over the years his fitness checks had been optimum, until recently. Now old Thornnastor, who must be nearly as advanced in years as he was if one allowed for the lengthier Tralthan life span, and young Conway were forever hinting that he should take it easier, slow down and reduce his workload. By accident Gurronsevas had let slip the fact that it had been necessary to modify several of its sauces to disguise the taste of the supportive medication that was now being included daily in O’Mara’s food intake. He was returning the dishes, all empty if not quite licked clean, to the insulated serving tray when the attention signal on his console beeped at him.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Senior Physician Cresk-Sar is here, sir,” said Cha Thrat in its deep, Sommaradvan voice. “Are you ready for it?”

  “Yes,” he said again.

  Cresk-Sar opened the door and waddled quickly into the room like a hyperactive teddy bear. It was barely a meter tall, with tiny eyes that were almost hidden by tightly curled facial fur that was tinged around its mouth and ears with grey, as was the longer body hair that poked out in untidy tufts between the straps of its equipment harness. Aging is happening to all of us, O’Mara thought sadly. The Nidian senior tutor was the most frequent visitor to his office but, thankfully, it brought with it only the problems of its students.

  O’Mara keyed his board for the latest trainee psych reports and pointed at the edge of a recliner that had been designed for a Melfan but that should be comfortable enough for a short meeting. If it wasn’t, then Cresk-Sar could always take the option of making it shorter.

  “Your latest batch of trainees seems to be a pretty average bunch,” he said, turning aside from his screen. “There is the usual incidence of anxiety neuroses regarding underperformance during the coming examinations, professional inadequacy when faced with treating their first other-species patients, and, of course, their conviction that never ever will they learn to fully understand the thought processes of their medical-colleagues-to-be. They are right, of course, but that doesn’t stop you or any of the other seniors from doing your jobs. And yes, there is one of them, a Tralthan, for God’s sake, who is reporting dreams indicative of the fear-well-controlled, I admit-associated with possible sexual molestation and penetration by one or more of its other-species colleagues. What could a six-legged, tentacled elephant possibly fear from a bunch of Kelgians, Melfans, Nidians, and one Earth-human female, all of whom are less than one-quarter of its body mass?”

  Cresk-Sar made a barking sound that did not translate, its Nidian equivalent of laughter. “As we know, sir, large muscles do not preclude emotional sensitivity.”

  O’Mara knew that very well, but it was a sensitivity he had tried to hide over the years. Irritated at having an old wound opened, he said sharply, “I don’t anticipate any serious emotional problems developing among this lot, Senior Physician. Or are you about to tell me I’m wrong?”

  “Yes,” said Cresk-Sar, fidgeting on the edge of the Melfan rediner. “I mean, not exactly. It’s… The problem is minei”

  For a long moment O’Mara stared at the other in silence. The thick, overall covering of fur made reading its expression impossible, except for the tiny, dark eyes and the body language, which were signaling tension and distress. He softened his tone to an extent that those who thought they knew him would not have believed possible.

  “Take your time, Cresk-Sar.”

  But the other did not want to take its time, because its staccato, Nidian speech poured out like the barking of an agitated dog. “It’s Crang-Suvi’ it said, “and me. She is the only other Nidian in the class. She’s very young, with dark-red fur and a voice and personality that, that… Dammit, she’s a Nidian male’s wishfulfillment dream. But she seems to be basically insecure for reasons which you know about and probably understand far better than I do…”

  While the other was talking, O’Mara had called up CrangSuvi’s psych file, and he did understand. Even though Cresk-Sar was repeating much of what was showing on the screen, he listened patiently without interrupting.

  … She is a Graduate of Excellence from Sanator Five.” the senior tutor went on, “which is Nidia’s foremost teaching hospital. Any hospital on a dozen planets, or the Corps’ medical service, would be glad to have her but, like everyone else in her class, she has always had her mind set on making it as a Sector General graduate and applying for a staff position here. She is intelligent, able, caring, unusually beautiful, shows no marked signs of xenophobia, and is used to getting what she wants. Personally, I’ve no doubt at all that Crang-Suvi will make it, but I can’t tell her so because that would be unfair to the other trainees. But she isn’t so sure and, within a week of her arrival, she indicated that she would like to increase her chances by providing sexual favors to her senior tutor. She says that the age differential is unimportant, and she refuses to take no for an answer…

  O’Mara held up his hand. “Has sexual contact taken place between you?”

  “No” said Cresk-Sar.

  “Why not?” said O’Mara.

  The other hesitated for a moment, during which O’Mara thought that at least the matter involved two beings of the same species; otherwise, if word of the affair had got out, it would have become really messy and a matter for someone’s resignation. In the circumstances they both knew that the hospital’s long-serving and most highly experienced tutor would not normally have been the one to resign-unless, of course, the situation had reached the stage of emotional involvement where they both felt it necessary to leave together. That would be bad, he thought, for Cresk-Sar, CrangSuvi, and Sector General, but otherwise gifted and intelligent people did stupid things at times.

  “Take your time” he said again.

  Cresk-Sar made a loud, self-irritated sound that did not translate; then it answered his original question.

  “There are four reasons why not,” it said miserably. “She is less than one-third of my age. She gives no promise of a permanent or even a lengthy relationship. I would be taking an unfair and selfish advantage of what would be a very pleasant situation, which would not influence the result of her finals one bit, although the psychological effect on her classmates, who would have difficulty believing that she was not being given an unfair advantage, would not be good. And, well, there is Surgeon-Lieutenant Warnagh-Lut, who would
not like it. Do you know about Warnagh-Lut?”

  “Not officially” said O’Mara dryly. His department took official cognizance of an event or activity only when it was highlighted in orange or red on the relevant psych file.

  The other went on, “She-Warnagh-Lut, that is-is closer to me in age and temperamentally much more suitable. But as a serving medical officer, even though her department is responsible for looking after the Corps maintenance personnel at the hospital, she could be sent anywhere in the galaxy at short notice. Had this not been so, we would have proclaimed our life-mate status long since. But now Crang-Suvi has, well, disturbed things. You understand?”

  O’Mara nodded. He said, “You, and your continued mental well-being, are more valuable to this establishment than any trainee, no matter how gifted. It can be returned to its home world immediately, with or without an explanation. Right?”

  “No!” said Cresk-Sar vehemently. “That isn’t necessary. Besides, it would be a terrible waste of future medical talent. I just want Crang-Suvi off my back, or whatever. I’ve tried to do it, but she just ignores me and, well, it’s very difficult to ignore her. Could you just make her understand the situation and, well, talk to her like a stern father? In my trainee days, I seem to remember you doing that to me more than once.

  Feeling relieved, O’Mara nodded again. He approved of people with problems who provided their own solutions.

  “I can do that for you, of course.” he replied. “But initially I think Cha Thrat should approach your little disturbance before the chief psychologist has to take official notice of this particular misdemeanor, which would mean an official reprimand going on its training record. Cha Thrat is also female, and thankfully the only Sommaradvan in the hospital, so it will be more sympathetic. The department will handle it.”

  Deliberately he had followed the hospital practice of referring to Crang-Suvi and Cha Thrat as “it” because, to a member of any other species, the difference was considered unimportant unless there were clinical reasons for specifying another being’s sex. In many cases the visual differences were hard to detect, and much trouble and emotional distress had been caused in the early days by other-species members of the staff being mistakenly identified in company. So he called everyone who was not an Earth-human man or woman “it” regardless of sex, while the other-species staff did likewise where Earth-human males and females were involved. Besides, he thought dryly, it was much handier when the other species concerned had more than one sex.

  But now that the other’s problem was being solved it was time, O’Mara thought, that he stepped back into character. There was no sense in giving the impression that he was going soft.

  In a brisk, dismissive voice he said, “Is there anything or anyone else bothering you, Doctor?”

  “No, sir,” the other replied, slipping from the high edge of the Melfan recliner onto the floor and turning to leave. “But I would like to congratulate you on your new appointment. It is welldeserved.”

  O’Mara inclined his head; then on impulse he said, “In my new capacity as administrator I can see to it that the Monitor Corps allows your Warnagh-Lut to remain in Sector General indefinitely, if that is what you both wish.” He smiled sourly and added, “After all, there is no point in me having ultimate power if I don’t occasionally abuse it.”

  Cresk-Sar gave an untranslatable bark of thanks and waddled hurriedly out of the office as if it had good and urgent news to tell someone. O’Mara sighed in self-irritation. Watch it, he told himself, you are definitely going soft. Then he keyed the attention signal to the outer office and held it down until Braithwaite replied.

  “In here, all of you. Now.”

  CHAPTER 3

  They trooped in single file into the big inner office in reverse order of seniority. The Tarlan ex-surgeon-captain and present Padre Lioren was first, followed by the Sommaradvan former warrior-surgeon Cha Thrat, with O’Mara’s principal assistant, Braithwaite, bringing up the rear. O’Mara waved a hand loosely toward the furniture.

  “This will take time.” he said. “Find a place to sit.”

  Braithwaite was lucky in that there was one Earth-human chair; the others had to settle for the best they could find, because the Sommaradvan and Tarlan cultures had yet to be discovered when the room had been furnished. No doubt Maintenance, who argued that anything that was not an emergency had to be considered low priority, would get around to remedying the discrepancy one of these years.

  While O’Mara pretended to stare down at his large, bluntfingered hands on the desk before him, he watched them through lowered brows as they settled themselves comfortably or uncomfortably and stopped fidgeting. He was thinking that one didn’t have to have a history of insanity to work in Other-Species Psychology, but that precondition conferred certain advantages, even where their chief was concerned. Every member of his staff was flawed in some respect, but today he was regarding them all clinically and dispassionately from a completely new viewpoint.

  Braithwaite looked relaxed, self-assured, and incredibly neat. Even when he was leaning back onto his shoulder blades in an armchair, his uniform gave the impression that he was about to undergo a fleet commander’s inspection. Cha Thrat was a physiological classification DCNF whose large, cone-shaped body possessed four stubby legs, four medial arms, and another four arms at shoulder level that were thinner with hands terminating in finer, more sensitive digits. Physically, Lioren resembled Cha Thrat except that its body, legs, and arms were longer and less muscular, but the resemblance was no closer than that between a giraffe and a horse.

  O’Mara raised his head. “I want to discuss briefly my promotion to administrator” he said, “and its effect on the future work of this department, the change of emphasis in certain of your duties that will become necessary, and what I expect from all of you as a result. Feel free to interrupt if you are quite sure you have something of value to say. But I shall begin by talking, in order of length of service and experience, about you.”

  He waited until a second bout of fidgeting had abated, then went on, “I know that you have all broken the rules by sneaking a look at one another’s confidential psych files, so what I say should not cause embarrassment. If it does, tough. Braithwaite first.”

  Without changing his position in the deep armchair, the lieutenant somehow gave the impression that he had come to attention.

  “You” he went on briskly, “deal well with the office staff and routine and you are good with people regardless of species. When sympathy is needed you are sympathetic, firm when the being concerned isn’t doing enough to help solve his, her, or its problem, and you never, ever lose your temper. To your present superior you are respectful without being subservient, and you gently but firmly resist any attempt at bullying. As my principal assistant you’re close to ideal. Intelligent, efficient, adaptable, dedicated, uncomplaining, and completely lacking in ambition. In spite of completing your medical training here, you refused to take the Corps exams for surgeon-lieutenant. You have found your niche in Other-Species Psychology and you don’t want to go anywhere or do anything else. When you were offered a major promotion off-hospital you turned it down.

  “But enough of the compliments, Lieutenant,” he went on. “On and under the surface your personality is so well adjusted that it is almost frightening. Your only defect is that in one respect you are a total and abject coward. You want to be and you are a trusted and resourceful second-in-command who enjoys the power and advantages that the position confers, but you are intensely afraid of taking the ultimate responsibility that would go with the top job.”

  Without the smallest change of expression, Braithwaite nodded. He was a man who was comfortable with the truth about himself. O’Mara turned to Cha Thrat.

  “Unlike the lieutenant” he said, “you are not afraid of anything. On Sommaradva you were a leading warrior-surgeon who, in spite of your patient being the first other-species entity you had ever seen, was able to intervene surgically and save the l
ife of a leading member of the contact team. Because of the team’s gratitude, plus the fact that they wanted to do the Sommaradvan authorities a favor because the contact was not going well, you were sent here as a trainee, in spite of hospital objections, for political rather than medical reasons.

  “In the event your surgical ability and technique were acceptable” he continued sourly, “but your strict adherence to Sommaradvan medical ethics was not. You were free to attend lectures, but soon nobody would accept you for practical work on the wards. We found you a job as a trainee in Maintenance, where you did well and became popular with a large number of the junior-grade medical and maintenance staff trainees until you messed up there, too. I’m not quite sure how you ended up here. Some people think I took pity on you.

  “Some people,” he added dryly as he turned toward Lioren, “don’t know me very well.”

  He paused for a long moment, thinking about what he should say to this entity who had suffered and was still suffering. O’Mara’s words and manner toward a patient and a colleague were different. With an emotionally distressed person he could be as gentle and sympathetic as the situation required, but to a mentally healthy nonpatient he preferred to relax and be his normal, badtempered, sarcastic self. In spite of the Tarlan’s continued good progress over the past two years, Lioren fell somewhere into the grey area between therapist and patient. But whatever he said, the Padre would accept it without complaint because it would consider that it deserved every physical and mental cruelty it would ever receive.

  When Lioren had joined Sector General he had been a Wearer of the Blue Cloak, Tarla’s equivalent of Earth’s Nobel Prize for Medicine, and it had shown itself to be an unusually able and dedicated other-species physician and surgeon before transferring to the Monitor Corps’ medical service, where its promotion to surgeoncaptain had been deservedly rapid.