The Galactic Gourmet

CHAPTER 10

The Hudlar medic needed magnetic wrist pads, a sealed air-bag communicator to enclose its speaking membrane, but no other environmental protection of any kind, so that it dressed very quickly and was ready long before Gurronsevas; but, being a Hudlar, there was no other way for its eagerness to show.

As soon as Gurronsevas had learned of the arrival of a Hudlar freighter at Bay Twelve, he had decided to spend some time studying the unloading operation. It was a matter of professional curiosity. He wanted to observe and if necessary question all aspects of the hospital’s food supply, storage, distribution and processing systems even though, as the Chief Dietitian with a specialist catering staff, he might never have need of the information. But he had followed this rule on taking up all new appointments and he had no wish to change the habit of a lifetime.

A few minutes later they were emerging into the temporary vacuum of the vast unloading dock, accompanied by repeated warnings not to get in the cargo-handlers’ way or between the tractor-beam projectors and the incoming containers that were being moved and stacked with seemingly reckless speed. With the Hudlar taking the lead and staying close to the floor plating, and as they were about to enter the lock itself, an impatient voice on Gurronsevas communicator ordered a three-minute hold on unloading operations to allow two members of the hospital staff to traverse the lock in the wrong direction. The voice, whose species of origin was unknown, sounded authoritative but impatient.

Another Hudlar detached itself from the cargo-handling team and joined them. It was polite and friendly, and became even more so when the intern explained Gurronsevas’ position at Sector General and his professional interest in improving the quality of Hudlar tanked food. There were no objections to two members of the hospital staff touring the ship, it said, provided one of the crew accompanied them. It immediately volunteered itself for the duty and led the way towards the nearby personnel lock.

Like Chalder Patient One-Thirteen, Hudlars did not give or use their names in the presence of anyone who was not a member of the family or a close friend, and this one had not even revealed its rank, duties or identity number so that Gurronsevas did not know what it was. Judging by its assured manner of speech while it was discussing the mechanics of its race’s food ingestion, it was possible that the other was the ship’s medical officer.

Whether or not it was the friend in female mode that the intern had come to visit was also unknown. Hudlars were said to be very undemonstrative beings, at least in public.

“Is the gravity setting and external pressure comfortable for you?” asked the second Hudlar as they moved into the crew quarters. It was looking at Gurronsevas’s protective envelope, whose flexible sections were pressed tightly against his body. Hudlars could live and work for long periods in airless and weightless conditions, but whenever possible they preferred the home comforts of high pressure and heavy gravity.

“Quite comfortable,” Gurronsevas replied. “In fact, these conditions more closely approximate those on my home planet than the standard Earth-G maintained in the hospital. But I shall not unseal my suit, if you don’t mind. Your air is rich enough in oxygen not to be lethal, but there are other constituents, some of them still appear to be alive, which might cause me respiratory distress.”

“We do not mind,” said the second Hudlar. “And you will find more of those constituents on the recreation deck, which is the best place to withdraw your non-edible samples. Is there anywhere else you would like to visit?”

“Everywhere,” said Gurronsevas. “But especially the dining area and kitchens.”

“You do not surprise me, Chief Dietitian,” said the Hudlar, making an untranslatable sound. “Are you familiar with the layout of these vessels?”

“Only as a passenger,” he replied.

“As a passenger,” the second Hudlar went on, “you will already know that the majority of the Federation’s starships are built by Nidia, Earth and your heavy-gravity Traltha because those three cultures produce the most dependable vessels. Even though the control systems, life-support and crew accommodation are built to suit the user species, Tralthan ships are the most favored by both the commercial operators and the Monitor Corps itself …”

“Who say,” Gurronsevas joined in proudly, “that even the Tralthan earth-moving machinery is put together by watchmakers.”

The Hudlar paused for a moment, then it said, “Correct. But I have no wish to give offense by presuming a low level of general knowledge. Only to say that this is a robust ship, built to Hudlar specifications on Traltha, so you can relax and throw your not inconsiderable weight around safe in the knowledge that our equipment and fittings are not susceptible to accidental damage.”

“No offense was taken,” said Gurronsevas. Appreciatively he stamped his six heavy feet in turn with a force that would have seriously dented Sector General’s flooring. “Thank you.”

As he followed them towards the control deck, he thought that the lighting was a little dimmer than that of his native Traltha, and made worse by some kind of colloidal suspension in the air that formed a grey film on his visor which he had to wipe clean every few minutes. Apparently the two Hudlars were not troubled by it.

Gurronsevas showed a polite interest in the equipment and displays on the control deck, but lingered at the screen which showed the unloading operation as viewed from the freighter. The Hudlar crew-member explained that the food material for the synthesizers in the warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing section, which was not susceptible to damage or chemical change through rough handling, was the first to be off-loaded. The Illensan material and their own tanks of compressed Hudlar nutrient required more handling before transfer to their respective storage facilities by the hands and gravity floats of specialist cargo teams, rather than being thrown about by tractor beam operators. The internal transfer teams, who operated without spacesuits, would join the other handlers as soon as the freighter’s hold and the airless loading bay were returned to normal atmospheric pressure. This was happening as they watched, but given the size of the combined volume of the receiving dock and freight hold, the process was necessarily a slow one, and so would leave just enough time for the less fragile stores to be unloaded.

“The ship carries enough of all three types of cargo to keep the hospital supplied for one-quarter of a standard year,” the Hudlar went on. “Supplying food for the more exotic life-forms, like that TLTU Diagnostician you have who breathes superheated steam and eats the Maker alone knows what, or the radiation-eating Telfi VTXMs is not our responsibility. Nor, I hope, is it yours.”

“It isn’t,” said Gurronsevas, and added silently, “at least not yet.”

If anything, he thought, the ship’s dining area resembled an other-species communal shower. It was capable of accommodating up to twenty diners at a time although there were only five crew-members waiting to enter when Gurronsevas and his escort joined them. He was advised to remain outside and to observe the proceedings through a direct vision panel in the corridor rather than suffer the inconvenience of a protective suit and helmet plastered with Hudlar food. His two guides, whose well-covered organs of absorption showed that they had dined recently, remained with him. The others hurried inside and the last one in switched on the facility.

Immediately the food sprayers set at close intervals into the walls and ceiling began pumping in nutrient at high pressure until a thick fog of the stuff filled the room. Then fans concealed around in walls came to life, whipping the dense atmosphere into a room-sized storm and keeping the food particles airborne.

“The food is identical with that used in the hospital and on all Hudlar ships and space accommodations,” the Hudlar medic explained, “but the violent air movement closely resembles the continual storm conditions found on our world and makes it feel, if not taste, more homely. The recreation deck is even more homelike as you will see, but foodless and, for you, much less messy.”

The recreation deck was empty because the rest of the crew were either dining or off-loading cargo. Lighting that was more subdued than that of the corridor outside made it just possible for him to see the details of exercise equipment, unlit reading and entertainment screens and hard, irregular masses of what might have been sculptures. There was no soft furniture or bedding because the Hudlars were too hard-skinned to require soft padding on which to relax. A tightly-stretched, circular membrane set into the ceiling was emitting whistling and moaning noises which he was told was relaxing Hudlar music, but it was fighting a losing battle against the howling and buffeting sounds of the artificial gale that was blowing around the room.

So strong were some of the gusts at times that they threatened to blow him off his six widely braced Tralthan feet.

“Small objects are striking my suit and visor,” said Gurronsevas. “Some of them appear to be alive.”

“They are wind-borne stinging and burrowing insects native to our home world,” said the Hudlar medic. “The tiny amounts of toxic material secreted by their stings affects our absorption organs briefly before being neutralized. To a species like your own, who have a well-developed sense of smell, the insects perform a function analogous to that of a sharp-tasting, aromatic vegetation. How many specimens will you require?”

“A few of each species, if there is more than one,” Gurronsevas replied. “Preferably living insects with their stings and poison sacs intact. Is this possible?”

“Of course,” said the medic. “Just open your specimen flask and reseal it when enough of them have been blown inside …”

He had been toying with the idea of sectioning off an area of the hospital’s main dining room for the exclusive use of Hudlars, and of introducing wind machines and a small swarm of native insects so as to make their dining environment more enjoyable, but now it would have to be discarded. The insects blowing against his suit were trying with great persistence to bite and sting him through the fabric, and the thought of the havoc they could create among the hospital’s unprotected diners should they escape from the Hudlar enclosure was too frightful to contemplate. He decided that the nutrient sprayers were a simple and well-tried method of feeding even though the food itself tasted like nothing on Hudlar.

While they were continuing to describe the sensations caused by native insects attacking the outer layers of their absorption organs, Gurronsevas noticed that a slight, intermittent tremor was affecting their limbs. He knew that the condition was not due to lack of food because both had recently been sprayed and, if it was a medical problem, then the intern would have made some mention of it. But was there another possibility?

Apart from the other-species and therefore sexually neutral presence of himself, they had been alone together in the empty recreation deck for nearly two hours. Gurronsevas did not know whether or not their species required privacy for what they might be intending to do, but he had no intention of waiting to find out.

“I am grateful to both of you,” he said quickly. “Your information has been interesting and may prove helpful in solving your problem, although at present I do not know how. But I must not impose on your kindness any longer and will leave you without delay.

“Please,” he went on as the Hudlar medic began moving towards the entrance, “I have a very good sense of direction so there is no need to accompany me.”

There was a moment’s silence as he turned to go, then the intern said, “Thank you.”

“You show great consideration,” said its friend.

Since joining Sector General the operation of Federation standard airlock controls had become a matter of routine, as had the checks on his protective envelope before changing environments. When the outer seal opened, his helmet indicators showed enough air in his tanks to last for half an hour. His thruster fuel was running low, too, but that was unimportant because he could make a weightless jump to the cargo lock and use thrust only for any minor course corrections.

During his visit the ship’s vast freight hold had been almost emptied, but when he switched on his communicator there was the same continuous flow of instructions to cargo handlers and tractor beamers. The composition of the freight streaming through the cargo lock had changed to double-layer, 200-pack bales of Hudlar sprayers interspersed with strings of the bright yellow-and-green tanks containing the poisonous, high-pressure, chlorine-based sludge required for the Illensan food synthesizers. As the seal closed behind him, Gurronsevas positioned his six feet carefully on the wall, waited until there was a break in the rapidly-flowing stream of freight going past, and jumped towards the cargo lock.

At once he knew that he had made two very serious mistakes.

For the past two hours Gurronsevas and his leg muscles had been accustoming themselves to the three Gs of the Hudlar ship rather than the nil-G of the loading bay, so he had used too much power in his jump. He was off-course and spinning slowly and moving much too fast …

“What the blazes are you doing?” said an angry voice in his earpiece. “Get back onto the deck!”

…And he had forgotten to tell the tractor-beamers, who could not see his jumping-off position because of the restricted view through the cargo lock, of his intention to return to the hospital. Quickly, he used his thrusters, but misjudged again and found himself tumbling towards one of the Illensan tanks.

“Beamer Three,” said the voice again, “pull that damn Tralthan out of there!”

Gurronsevas felt the sudden, invisible tug of the tractor beam, but it was off-center so that it pulled only on his forebody and sharply increased his rate of spin.

“Can’t,” said another voice. “It’s still using thrusters. Stop moving, dammit, so’s I can focus on you!”

He had no intention of stopping. Behind him an Illensan food tank, touched briefly by the tractor beam, was rushing towards him. He used the thrusters at full power, not caring which direction he took so long as it would avoid a collision with that hurtling chlorine bomb. An instant later he crashed into a 200-unit bale of Hudlar sprayers.

In spite of the gravity-free state of the freight hold, the mass and inertia of a spinning Tralthan body was considerable. So was that of the food sprayers, several of which burst open in a great, soft explosion of nutrient paint that drove the others apart and into the path of the Illensan tank. The jagged edge of a broken sprayer must have ruptured it because there was another and greater pressure explosion and, as the constituents of the Hudlar and Illensan food reacted chemically with each other, a rapidly expanding cloud of yellow-brown, hissing and boiling gas began drifting towards the open cargo lock.

“Cut all tractors to the ship,” said a voice urgently. “We can’t see through this muck …!”

The steady procession of freight items that were still moving past him into the opaque cloud around the cargo lock and continuing through it — but not all of them. Some were striking the rim and bursting open with enough force to knock subsequent items off-course. The sounds of collisions and pressure explosions were continuous and the toxic cloud was growing rapidly, shooting out fat, yellow-brown filaments and threatening to engulf the entire freight hold within minutes.

Hudlars could survive the environments of most of the Federation planets as well as the vacuum of space, but contact with chlorine was instantly lethal to them.

Somewhere a siren came suddenly to life, its short, urgent blasts reinforcing a new voice that was repeating, “Contamination alarm, major oxygen-chlorine incident Loading Bay Twelve. Decontamination squads Two through Five to Bay Twelve at once …”

“Urgent to all Hudlar cargo handlers,” the first, authoritive voice returned. “Evacuate your hold immediately and take cover in—”

“Duty officer, Trivennleth,” a new voice broke in. “We cannot get them all inside in time. Less than a quarter will reach safety. Propose pulling free with airlocks open, changing attitude ninety degrees using maximum lateral thrust port-side bow rather than main drive to minimize structural damage to the hospital—”

“Do it, Trivennleth!” the first voice replied. “All cargo bay personnel, reseal your suits and grab hold of something solid. Massive decompression imminent …”

Above the braying of the siren, Gurronsevas could hear a great metallic creaking and groaning from around the cargo lock as the freighter’s lateral bow thrusters applied lateral pressure to push the interface surfaces apart. Suddenly there was the high-pitched whistle of escaping air that sucked away the obscuring clouds momentarily, revealing a dark, widening crescent where the airlock seals on one side had been pulled apart, then he felt himself being sucked towards the opening with the other loose pieces of cargo.

For an instant it seemed that every tank and sprayer in the vicinity was hitting him and splashing his suit with nutrient, then suddenly he was outside and the objects were drifting away from him.

If he had been wearing a heavy-duty suit, Gurronsevas knew that he would not have survived. But the lightweight protective envelope had been flexible enough to remain undamaged, although the same could not be said for its wearer. His left flank and outer surfaces of his medial and hind limb on that side felt like one great, livid bruise, and he had the feeling that it would feel worse before it felt better.

To take his mind off his discomfort, Gurronsevas moved his eyes to the few remaining areas of his helmet that were not obscured by paint so that he could watch what was happening while he awaited rescue.

The projecting structure of Bay Twelve’s cargo lock had suffered a minor deformation when the freighter had twisted itself free, but the seal was still open and projecting a misty cone of escaping air mixed with pieces of unsecured cargo which were colliding and bursting against each other. Trivennleth had turned through ninety degrees and was lying parallel with the hospital’s outer hull. By comparison the freighter’s hold was only a fraction of the volume of the unloading bay and must have been airless by now, because its lock showed no signs either of mist or escaping cargo.

Its duty officer had acted decisively and well, Gurronsevas thought, and wondered why the Captain had not taken charge during the emergency. He was considering the possibility that the commanding officer had been the person he had left sharing the recreation deck with the Hudlar intern when he became aware that a voice in his headset was talking about him.“… And where is that stupid Tralthan?” it was saying angrily. “Trivennleth’s crew are safe in vacuum, no casualties. The same with our oxy-breathing handlers. Senior Dietitian Gurronsevas, come in please. If you’re still alive, respond dammit …!”

It was then that Gurronsevas discovered that his suit had not escaped entirely without damage. The communicator’s Transmit light would not come on.

Not only was his air running dangerously low, nobody would be able to hear his calls for help.