The Galactic Gourmet

CHAPTER 9

When there were over ten thousand members of the medical and maintenance staff plus a few thousand patients that he would ultimately have to please, it was neither sensible, efficient nor even fair that he concentrate all his efforts towards the satisfaction of one being, even though it was probably the most influential entity in the hospital. The O’Mara project, Gurronsevas had decided, must be allowed to progress concurrently with those of others which were likely to present fewer problems.

The decision had been influenced by his spies from the Psychology Department who, after five days during which he had engaged in some subtle tinkering with the Chief Psychologist’s food intake, had reported no discernable change in Major O’Mara’s temper, behavior following meals, or manner towards subordinates or anyone else.

During one of their daily meetings in the dining hall, Cha Thrat suggested that the Major might be one of those rare people with the ability to ignore their sensoria while engaged in serious professional mentation during meals, and was therefore unaware of the changes. Braithwaite agreed, saying that it had smelled the difference the Chief Dietitian had made to O’Mara’s meals, and that it would gladly offer itself as a more appreciative and responsive subject. Gurronsevas had replied by saying that data obtained from an objective and even hostile source was more valuable than that from an appreciative volunteer.

“However,” he ended, “as there was no strong negative response from O’Mara, I have assumed that the changes are acceptable and have already introduced my Earth-human menu changes into the main dining hall’s synthesizer. You, Lieutenant, and probably every other Earth-human in the hospital, will let me know what they think.”

“We will,” said Braithwaite, smiling as it called up the menu. “Which meals?”

“I need decent food, too,” said Cha Thrat, “as much and as often as Earth-human DBDGs.”

“I am aware of that,” Gurronsevas replied, “and the hospital’s single Sommaradvan DCNF has not been forgotten. But your species joined the Federation comparatively recently and, during my time at the Cromingan-Shesk, we did not have the opportunity of catering for Sommaradvans. Data on your eating habits and preferences is therefore scarce. If you wish to discuss them with me now I would gladly listen, if only to take my mind off the taste of this unappetizing mush that resembles only visually a truncated creggilon in uxt syrup. But my own favorite other-species dish is the Nallajim strill millipede, a beautifully-marked crawler with black and green hair about so long, and served live, of course, in an edible cage of cruulan pastry.”

“Please,” said Braithwaite, “I am about to eat.”

“I, too,” Cha Thrat said, “am suffering increasing abdominal discomfort. In a moment I shall probably turn myself inside out.”

“Suffering is good for the soul, Cha Thrat,” Padre Lioren joined in, “and if you do that we will find out whether or not you’ve got one.”

Gurronsevas was trying to devise a reply that was both culinary and theological when a Hudlar wearing the insignia of a junior intern approached the table and vibrated its speaking membrane.

“Chief Dietitian Gurronsevas?” it said shyly, and waited.

The Hudlars had the thickest and most impervious skin of any Federation species, Gurronsevas knew from long experience, and the most sensitive feelings. He said, “Doctor, may I help you?”

“You may be able to help me, and my FROB colleagues,” it said. “But is this an inconvenient time for you? Our problem is serious but non-urgent.”

Gurronsevas said, “I have a few minutes to spare before leaving for Loading Bay Twelve. If you need more time than that we can talk as we walk. What is the problem, Doctor?”

While they had been speaking, all of Gurronsevas’ eyes had been on the creature who, although not much greater in size, had a body mass at least four times that of his own. It had six tentacular limbs which served both as locomotor and manipulatory appendages and, like many immensely strong beings forced to live among entities many times weaker than itself, it was careful and gentle in its movements.

The FROB physiological classification, Gurronsevas reminded himself, had evolved on a heavy-gravity world with an ultra-dense atmosphere that resembled nothing so much as a thick, high-pressure soup. It was covered by a body tegument, transparent where it enclosed the eyes, that was as tough as flexible armor plating. As well as protecting them against the savage external pressure of their native environment, it enabled them to work comfortably in any atmospheric pressure down to and including the vacuum of space. Their skin was completely without seam or body orifice, the speaking membrane served also as its sound sensor, and they did not breathe. Food was ingested through organs of absorption that covered both flanks and the wastes were eliminated by a similar mechanism on the underside, both systems under voluntary control. When off-planet their food had to be sprayed on at frequent intervals because they were an energy-hungry species.

The most common problem with Hudlars was periodic starvation. When their minds were concentrating on their duties or an interesting conversation, and often while they were hurrying to the dining hall sprayers, they collapsed helplessly onto a ward or corridor floor whenever their food ran out, and they could not be revived until they were repainted. If the coating of food was applied without delay, there were no ill-effects, so the condition was considered to be a nuisance rather than a medical emergency. To reduce the incidence of Hudlars collapsing from malnutrition at the wrong times and places, every oxygen-breathing ward in the hospital stocked a supply of Hudlar paint for use in these non-emergencies. But this one’s organs of absorption were thickly covered by nutrient paint, Gurronsevas saw, so its problem could not be food.

It is always wrong, Gurronsevas told himself as soon as the Hudlar began to speak, to jump to conclusions.

“Sir,” it said, “everyone is talking about the alterations you have made to the Chalder, Illensan and Earth-human menus. I, we Hudlars, that is, would not want you to think that we are complimenting you simply for the purpose of influencing your future actions, because the compliment is deserved whether or not you …Oh, are you leaving for Bay Twelve now? I, too, have business there. Shall I walk in front of you, Chief Dietitian? We would make better time because the other entities using the corridors will try to avoid colliding with a Hudlar, regardless of any differences in medical rank.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Gurronsevas. “But I’m not sure that I can do anything for you. Hudlars are, well, Hudlars. My experience of serving patrons of your species was similar to what happens here, except that a light screen was placed around their dining area to protect nearby patrons from misdirected nutrient. The food tanks were taken from stores, and the only function of my kitchen staff was to ensure that the spraying equipment was arranged on a suitably decorated floater. What changes had you in mind, Doctor?”

Five minutes later they were moving along the corridor leading to the null-G drop-shaft that would take them close to Bay Twelve, and still the other had not spoken. Gurronsevas did not know whether it was disappointment or shyness that was keeping the intern’s speech membrane silent.

Finally, it said, “I don’t know, sir. Probably I am wasting your time and trying your patience. The food we are given is perfectly suited to our nutritional needs and cannot be faulted, but it is utterly tasteless and unexciting when it enters our absorption organs. I do not wish to criticize the Hospital or yourself because all Hudlar food supplied by the home planet tastes like this because, as you will already know, it must be dried and all constituents likely to cause spoilage removed before it is emulsified prior to suspension in the nutrient paint. Attempts at synthesizing Hudlar food have been unsuccessful, and most unpalatable.”

It was Gurronsevas turn to remain silent. He sympathized with the Hudlar, but he had asked a question and he was not going to ask it again.

“I don’t know what if any changes are possible,” the intern went on. “All Hudlars working away from our home planet use the paint and are resigned to its use. But if only we could look forward to the pleasure rather than the utter boredom of eating, we would not, I feel sure, collapse so often in inconvenient places.”

It had a point, Gurronsevas thought.

They were moving through the entrance to the control center of Bay Twelve, through the transparent canopy he could see the open cargo locks of the unloading dock and the hold of the recently arrived freighter. The first sealed containers, brightly color-coded to indicate origin and contents, were being withdrawn by the tractor beam operators. To facilitate the transfer both the bay and the ship’s cargo hold were airless and gravity-free. The final placement of the containers was the responsibility of a swarm of cargo handlers of different species wearing red-and-yellow protective suits. The whole process, Gurronsevas thought, resembled nothing so much as a crowd of children playing with outsized building blocks.

“Doctor,” he said, “how and why does the nutrient paint differ in taste from the food on your home world?”

The Hudlar tried very hard to tell him how and why in great detail, and the picture of the other’s planetary environment that emerged was intriguing and just short of incredible. As a child student Gurronsevas had been exposed to the basic information about Hudlar during the lessons on the Geography of Federation Planets. But now he was beginning to appreciate and understand it as would a native. The word-picture had holes in it, however, because the Hudlar was pausing from time to time, often in mid-sentence, as if its attention was not entirely on what it was saying. When Gurronsevas followed the direction of its gaze the reason became clear.

“That vessel has a Hudlar crew,” he said, pointing at the open cargo lock and the figures who were busy positioning containers for withdrawal. “Are you acquainted with someone on board?”

“Yes,” said the intern. “We grew up together. A friend of the family who is presently in female mode and who is to become my life-mate.”

“I see,” said Gurronsevas carefully. The mechanism of Hudlar reproduction was a subject he had not felt a need to study, and he did not want to become embroiled in the emotional problems of a lovelorn Hudlar.

“If I understand you correctly,” said Gurronsevas, ignoring the change of subject, “the atmospheric broth that you absorbed on your home world consisted of tiny pieces of living animal and vegetable tissue which, because of the violent and continuous storms which sweep your planet, remains permanently in suspension in the lower reaches of your gas envelope. The toxic material that is also present is identified by the taste sensors in your organs of absorption and, because it produces a stinging or burning sensation, it is either rejected or neutralized. The intensity of your overall taste sensations are in direct proportion to the degree of toxicity. Is it the absence of these unpleasant taste sensations that is your principal complaint?”

“Correct, sir,” said the Hudlar promptly. “The occasional bad taste is, or would be, a reminder of home and normality.”

Gurronsevas thought for a moment, then said, “I well understand the concept of combining sweet with sour, or the astringent with the bland to improve the taste sensation. But frankly, I do not think the Hospital would allow me to introduce toxic material deliberately into a species’ menu, especially if it would quickly render the remainder of the food supply inedible.”

The Hudlar had no features to reflect its feelings, but the hard muscles supporting its speaking membrane had begun to sag. Gurronsevas went on, “However, I am willing to look at the problem. How can I obtain samples of this mildly toxic material? Must you send to Hudlar for it?”

“No, sir,” said the intern quickly, its speaking membrane once again stretched stiffly in excitement. “A large volume of Hudlar atmosphere came aboard the freighter while it was loading on the home world. There is a pocket of it on the recreation deck. It will be pretty stale by now, but the non-edible material you need will be present in quantity. And if you would be interested in a tour of the ship while you gathered specimens, I would be pleased to arrange it.”

Gurronsevas was remembering the Hudlar medic’s childhood friend who was in female mode somewhere within the freighter. He thought, I’m sure you would.