The Galactic Gourmet sg-9 Read online

  “I am nevertheless impressed,” said Gurronsevas. The warmth and friendliness emanating from the little being was almost palpable. “May I join you?”

  “Stranger, you are too damned polite,” a large Orligian from the other side of the vacant place broke in loudly. It was elderly, its bristling grey fur concealed most of the straps of its equipment harness, and it was seated not very comfortably on the edge of the table’s Melfan support cradle, all of which may have contributed to its own lack of politeness. “I am Yaroch-Kar. Just grab the seat before somebody else does. In this place you’ll find that the polite people are always badly undernourished.”

  Further along the table an Earth-human made the sound Gurronsevas had learned to identify as laughter, and in a softer voice the Orligian went on. “The mechanism for food selection and delivery is standard. Just key in your physiological classification and the menu display will list the food available. We have a lot of Tralthans here so there is a good selection, even though the quality and taste are matters for argument.”

  Gurronsevas did not reply. He was modifying his earlier opinion regarding this impolite Orligian. The being had tried to be helpful. It was still trying.

  “With newcomers like yourself,” it went on, “it sometimes happens that the meals being consumed by your fellow diners, perhaps even the diners themselves, are visually distressing to the point where the appetite is affected. If such is the case with you, just keep one eye on your platter and close the others. Nobody here will be offended. And if you really are the person who is to be responsible for the quality, or lack of it, of hospital catering, life would be easier for you if you kept that knowledge to yourself for as long as possible.”

  “My deepest thanks for the information and good advice,” said Gurronsevas. “Regrettably, I may not be able to take all of it.”

  “You are being too polite again,” said the Orligian, and returned its attention to its platter.

  As he moved closer to the table, being careful to straddle and not risk deforming the Melfan chair by allowing his underside to rest on it, the trilling, clicking speech of Prilicla came again.

  “I feel your hunger as well as your curiosity about my method of eating,” it said, “so please assuage one while I satisfy the other …”

  Prilicla might not be telepathic, Gurronsevas thought as he keyed in his choice, but with an empathic faculty of such sensitivity the difference was negligible.

  “… I find that eating while in flight aids the digestion,” it went on, answering the first unasked question, “and, should it be too hot for fast consumption, the wing downdraft helps cool the soup of my Earth-human friends. The stringy material that I am weaving and eating is, of course, the Earth staple called spaghetti, which is very popular with the DBDGs on the maintenance staff. It is produced synthetically, as you know, and has a bland taste that is offset by a sauce which, when present in too large a quantity, sometimes splashes my features or those persons seated too close to me. Is there anything else you would like to know, friend Gurronsevas?”

  “Professionally, I find this most interesting,” he said, forgetting in his excitement to use the mouth not engaged in eating. “Do you eat any other varieties of non-Cinrusskin food? Or do you know of anyone else in the hospital who eats other-species food? Is there anyone at this table who does?”

  Yaroch-Kar put down its eating tools and said, “Diagnosticians do it sometimes, when they have a particularly strong other-species Educator tape riding them and they aren’t sure who they are. Apart from that a few have done it as a dare, or for a covert departmental initiation. I mean, imagine an Orligian like me eating, say, a helping of Melfan greeps and having to chase them around the bowl. I, personally, am very glad the practice isn’t widespread.”

  Gurronsevas could not believe what he was hearing. “You mean live food is served here?”

  “I exaggerate, but only a little,” said Yaroch-Kar. “The greep dish is mobile rather than alive; otherwise it is the same near-tasteless synthesized stodge we all eat. The material is treated with nontoxic chemicals which allow each piece of food to be given a small electrical charge. Half of them are charged positively and the other half negatively, then the pieces are mixed just inside the serving outlet. For the few moments before the charges neutralize each other, the effect is visually realistic and quite disgusting.”

  “Fascinating,” said Gurronsevas, thinking that this Yaroch-Kar was unusually knowledgeable where hospital cuisine was concerned. Perhaps it thought of itself as a gourmet, and he was anxious to continue the conversation. He went on, “At the Cromingan-Shesk we had to import live greeps, usually crottled, which made them a rare and expensive delicacy. But isn’t it theoretically possible to produce a meal that would be metabolically suited to, and attract and satisfy the appetites of all warm-blooded oxygen-breathers? A dish that would combine the visual appearance and taste sensations of, say, the Kelgian crelletin vine-shoots, Melfan swamp nuts, and greeps, of course, Orligian skarkshi, Nallajim bird-seed, Earth-human steak, and spaghetti, too, and our own …Is something wrong?”

  With the exception of the hovering Prilicla the other entities at the table were making loud, untranslatable noises. It was the Earth-human who replied.

  “Wrong?” it said. “The very idea is driving us to the point of imminent regurgitation.”

  Prilicla made a short, trilling sound which did not translate, then went on, “I can detect no feelings of emotional or digestive distress, friend Gurronsevas. They are exaggerating their verbal responses for humorous effect. Do not concern yourself.”

  “I understand,” said Gurronsevas, returning all attention to the Cinrusskin. “Does weaving the spaghetti strands into a cable also aid your digestion?”

  “No, friend Gurronsevas,” Prilicla replied. “It is done for my own amusement.”

  “When I was very young,” Yaroch-Kar joined in, “which was a long time ago, I can remember being verbally chastised for playing with my food.”

  “I, too, have a similar memory,” said Prilicla. “But now that I have grown up to be big and strong, I can do as I please.”

  For a moment Gurronsevas stared in astonishment at the thin, egg-shell body, spidery limbs and incredibly fragile wings then he, too, joined the others in making the untranslatable sounds that were his own Tralthan equivalent of laughter.

  CHAPTER 4

  A lengthy period of wakeful thinking, so concentrated that he had no clear idea of the elapsed time, was interrupted by the insistent sound and flashing light of his door signal. It was Lieutenant Timmins.

  “Please excuse the interruption, sir,” it said briskly. “I trust you slept well. Is there anywhere special you would like to visit or people you want to meet? The catering computer, the food synthesizer banks, the ward diet kitchens or the food technicians responsible for …”

  Gurronsevas held up two of his upper limbs, loosely crossed in the non-verbal request for silence, a Tralthan gesture which Timmins must have understood because he stopped talking at once.

  “For the present,” said Gurronsevas, “none of those things. I know that you must have other duties, Lieutenant. So long as they permit it, I would prefer to have no close personal contact or conversation with anyone but yourself.”

  “I have other duties, naturally,” said Timmins, “but I also have an assistant who tries very hard to make me feel redundant. For the next two days, and thereafter at mutually convenient times, I will be at your disposal. What would you like to do first?”

  It was plain that Timmins was becoming impatient, but Gurronsevas did not move. He said, “At the risk of sounding repetitious and tedious, hopefully for the last time, I must remind you of my former position on Nidia. The Cromingan-Shesk was a very large, multi-species hotel and its kitchens, of which I had overall charge, were complex, technically advanced and, as you would expect, subject to periodic and most inconvenient malfunctions. I was able to reduce the number of these foul-ups by acquainting myself with t
he basic operation of the invisible support structures, the various other-species food reception systems, processors, ovens, and ancillary equipment, right down to the proper use of the smallest cutting implement and spoon. As well, I made myself familiar with the work of the sub-cooks, the waiters, those responsible for table decoration, the maintenance technicians, and so on down to the lowliest member of the cleaning staff. I made it my business to know enough to tell, if or when a fault occurred, whether I was being given a reason for it or an excuse.

  “Before I try to give instructions to anyone in my department,” he went on, “I want to know the geographical extent of my new responsibilities and the practical problems that are likely to occur, so that the gulf of ignorance between my subordinates and myself will be as narrow as possible. My learning process should begin at once.”

  Timmins’ mouth had opened while Gurronsevas had been speaking, but the configuration of its lips seemed wrong for a smile, and finally it said, “You will have to travel extensively through the maintenance tunnel network. In places it can be dirty, unpleasant and dangerous. Are you sure that is what you want?”

  “Quite sure,” said Gurronsevas.

  “Then we can talk as we walk,” said the Lieutenant. “But it would be better, at least in the beginning, if I talked and you listened. There is a personnel access hatch in the wall at the end of your corridor …”

  According to Timmins, the maps of the hospital’s maintenance tunnels and substations, which Gurronsevas had studied so assiduously before his arrival, had been produced for the information of interested non-specialists — the drawings were too simple, too pretty, and years out of date. As soon as they entered the maintenance access door he was confronted by a flight of descending stairs which should not have existed.

  “They’re strong enough to support your weight,” said Timmins, “but take them slowly. Or if you prefer we can use another access point where there is a ramp. Some Tralthans find stairs difficult …”

  “I used them in the hotel,” Gurronsevas broke in. “Just don’t ask me to climb ladders.”

  “I won’t,” said the Lieutenant. “But you go first. It isn’t politeness; just that I don’t want to risk a quarter of a ton of Tralthan falling on me. How is your eyesight?”

  “Very good,” said Gurronsevas.

  “But is it good enough,” Timmins persisted, “to clearly identify the subtle shadings and dilutions of color brought about by changes in the ambient lighting? Are you claustrophobic?”

  Trying to hide his impatience, Gurronsevas said, “I am able to tell by sight alone the degree of freshness, to within a few hours, of a wide range of commonly consumed fruit and vegetables. I am not claustrophobic.”

  “Good enough,” said Timmins. With a hint of apology in its voice it went on, “But look above and around you. All of the interconnecting corridors, tunnels, service bays and alcove shelters are just like this. The walls and ceilings are covered with cable looms and piping, all of which is color-coded. This enables my maintenance people to tell at a glance, like you and the fresh vegetables, which are power cables and which are the less dangerous communication lines, or which pipes carry oxygen, chlorine, methane, or organic effluvia. The danger of contamination of wards and staff accommodation by other-species’ atmospheres is always present, and such a local environmental catastrophe should not be allowed to happen because some partially-sighted entity connected up the wrong set of pipes.

  “Normally,” it went on, “I would not have to ask about visual acuity or claustrophobia because O’Mara’s psychological screening would reject anyone with those defects before they were accepted for training. But your psych file was not open to me because you are not a trainee …That alcove just ahead on the right. Get in, quickly!”

  For the past few seconds Gurronsevas had been aware of a high-pitched, wailing sound of steadily increasing volume. He felt Timmins’ small, soft hands pushing at his lower flank in a manner which in another Tralthan would have been considered an intimacy, but it was simply urging him to move more quickly into the alcove before squeezing in beside him.

  A gravity sled, piled so high with unidentifiable stores and equipment that there seemed to be only inches to spare between the load and the corridor walls, wailed past them. Above the sound of the warning siren the Earth-human driver shouted, “Morning, Lieutenant.” Timmins raised a hand but did not speak because by then the other entity was beyond conversational range.

  Now he knew the reason for the alcoves.

  “It would save time if we used a gravity sled instead of walking,” said Gurronsevas. “I was accustomed to driving in Retlin city center, where the traffic was quite horrendous, and was considered competent.”

  Timmins shook its head and said, “Not good enough. If you intend spending a lot of time in the service tunnels, I will arrange specialized driving instruction, in an empty cargo bay with collapsible practice-walls so that you won’t damage the hospital’s structure or yourself. But the chief reason for not using a sled right now is that it would move too fast for you to be able to see or learn anything useful about where we were going.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Good,” said the Lieutenant. “But now, a little test. Based on what little you have learned and your observations so far, what can you tell me about the stretch of tunnel we have just entered?”

  Very many years had passed since Gurronsevas had attended school, but then as now he had always tried hard to impress his teachers. He said, “For a few seconds I was aware of muted rumbling and shuffling sounds and muffled other-species voices, too many and too faint for translation, coming from the ceiling. This leads me to assume that we are passing under one of the main corridors. There is a faint smell that I cannot identify which I think in greater strength would be unpleasant. I also note that, while the color coding which identifies the overhead power and communication cables, as well as the piping which carries the water and oxygen-nitrogen mixture used by warm-blooded oxygen-breathers has remained consistent, several large-diameter pipes coded for water have also appeared, and a few narrower runs with a color coding about which you have not told me. I have a question.”

  “One good answer,” said Timmins, smiling, “deserves another. Ask.”

  “There were no identifying markings on any of the mechanisms and equipment we have passed,” said Gurronsevas. “Are you and your maintenance staff required to recognize by sight and memorize the function of all these mechanisms?”

  “God, no …!” Timmins began, when the siren of an approaching vehicle driven by a silver-furred Kelgian who did not speak forced them to take refuge in the nearest alcove. When they emerged, it continued, “Not even a Diagnostician has that good a memory. On your right is a red-blue-white-coded cabinet, that one with three of the large-diameter water pipes entering it. On the outer face is a large inspection panel with a small, hinged lid set into it. Pull back the lid and press the button inside.”

  Gurronsevas did so and was surprised when a new voice began speaking to them. He could not recognize the original language but the words came clearly through his translator.

  “I am a standby pump for the purpose of topping-up the environmental fluid in the Chalder main ward. This supply contains trace elements favored by its AUGL water-breathers which, although not toxic, make it unsuitable as a drinking water supply for other warm-blooded species. Functioning is automatic. The large inspection panel is opened by inserting your general-purpose key into the slot marked with a red circle and turning it, as indicated by the arrow, through ninety degrees. For component repair or replacement consult Maintenance Instructions Tape Three, Section One Thirty-two. Do not forget to close the panel before you leave.

  “I am a standby pump for …” it was repeating when Gurronsevas closed the lid, silencing it.

  “A verbal label,” he said admiringly, “understandable by everyone with a translator. I should have realized.”

  Timmins smiled and said, “We are
moving into the Illensan levels. The smell and the new color code you spotted indicate the presence of chlorine. But before we go any farther we need protective suits, so turn into the next opening on the left. In there, at least, you won’t have to worry about traffic.”

  The place was a multi-species suit store, he saw at once, and the transparent doors of the cabinets ranged around the walls revealed their contents while verbal labels gave any special fitting instructions on request. Timmins lifted out a suit for itself and donned it quickly before directing Gurronsevas towards one of the Tralthan cabinets.

  “With your six legs you may find getting into that thing tricky at first,” it said, “so I’ll help you. The garment is a combination of lightweight environmental protection and general purpose coveralls. On mine there is a head-hood which can be sealed should there be an emergency involving other-species contamination such as a major seal malfunction at an oxygen and chlorine interface, or between the Telfan hot level and anywhere else. Yours contains a short-duration air supply, cooling and drying elements to control perspiration and guard against heat prostration, and an emergency beacon to summon help should you get into trouble.

  “Don’t use the beacon unless you cannot get to a communicator and have a serious emergency,” the Lieutenant went on, “or until you are sure that you cannot solve the problem yourself. If a full rescue team with medical support turns out and finds that you are only lost or lonely, harsh words will be spoken.”

  “Harsh words,” said Gurronsevas, “would be deserved.”

  Timmins smiled and continued, “The suits also give protection against dirt, and cuts and abrasions from metal projections. Unlike the medical levels and your kitchens at the Cromingan-Shesk, we do not need to work in super-clean conditions. Static charges build up in the equipment which attracts dust, and with the lubricants used everywhere it makes for a very dirty combination that is difficult to remove, particularly for entities who are covered with fur. The protective coveralls are a uniform color, Monitor Corps green, with the exception of the transparent suits used by Kelgians who need their fur to be visible for non-verbal communication. Before dressing, medical or departmental insignia of rank are transferred to the outside of the garment. Now check your head seal. Is the general fit comfortable?”