The Galactic Gourmet

CHAPTER 14

Visiting the hospital’s Pathology Department reminded Gurronsevas of Nidia and his daily trips to the multi-species butcher’s to buy fresh meat for the Cromingan-Shesk’s carnivore-omnivore menu. Here he was not allowed to serve the whole or partially dismembered carcasses on show because they had once harbored intelligence and the hospital’s regulations on that point were strict. No real meat, fresh or unfrozen, must ever be used.

Thornnastor, the multiply absent-minded Diagnostician-in-Charge, rarely spoke to him but the words of Pathologist Murchison and the rest of the department’s staff were helpful, friendly, and, as now, even complimentary.

“Good morning,” said Murchison, looking up from its scanner examination of an organic something which he could not identify. “You surprised us yet again. My hus …I mean, Diagnostician Conway says thanks for whatever you did to the synthi-steaks, as do I and, I’m sure, a great many other Earth-humans. Very nice work, Gurronsevas.”

As Diagnostician-in-Charge of Surgery, Conway was second only to Thornnastor among the medical hierarchy, and it was also Murchison’s life-mate. In his present situation the gratitude of important beings could only be helpful.

Greatly pleased, Gurronsevas said self-deprecatingly, “The changes were minor and mostly of presentation, a small matter of culinary psychology, nothing more.”

“Your Diagnostician’s Alternative menu,” said Thornnastor, turning an eye towards him and speaking directly to Gurronsevas for the first time in three days, “is not a small matter.”

Gurronsevas agreed. To his mind all of the hospital’s Diagnosticians and Senior Physicians with other-species teaching duties had been little more than culinary cripples who were handicapped to a greater or lesser degree by the alien Educator tape donors who shared their minds, often imposing on them their own alien viewpoints, emotional responses and, inevitably, food preferences.

The Educator tape system was necessary to the hospital’s operation, Gurronsevas had learned, because no doctor, no matter how brilliant or able, could hold in its mind all of the physiological and pathological data necessary for the treatment of such a large number of other-species patients. With the tapes, however, the impossible became a matter of simple if sometimes unpleasant routine. A doctor with an other-species patient to treat was impressed with the mind-recording of a medical authority of that species until treatment was completed, after which the tape was erased. The reason for this was that the entire mentality of the donor entities were transferred and, even though they had no actual presence, and the host doctor knew this to be so, a non-material personality who had been tops in its field did not easily assume a subordinate position, and often gave the impression that it was the donor rather than the host who was in charge. Only Seniors and Diagnosticians of proven mental stability, and engaged in permanent teaching duties or ongoing research projects, were allowed to retain their tapes over long periods, but there was a price to pay.

Psychological problems were none of Gurronsevas’s concern, even though he might have solved one of them. He was slowly extending his Diagnostician’s Alternative menu and soon he would be able to cater for every life-form on the senior medical staff. Beings like Thornnastor, who possessed the appetite for food normal to a Tralthan of its body-mass, would no longer be seen seated at their dining benches, with eyes averted from the platter, in a vain attempt to conceal the contents from its other-species alter ego, whose revulsion would be communicated to the host mind. Now a tape-ridden diner could simply indicate the dish it required and request a visual presentation that would keep the donor entity happy, and the incidence of senior medical personnel going into periods of involuntary starvation would soon be a thing of the past. Even the acid-tongued Chief Psychologist O’Mara, Gurronsevas had been told, had been faintly complimentary about those particular changes.

But the person who was acknowledged to be the Federation’s foremost practitioner in the art of other-species cooking should use self-depreciation in moderation.

“I agree that it was not a small matter,” he said to Thornnastor. “It was a simple but quite brilliant idea on my part, one of many still to come.”

Thornnastor made the low, moaning sound that one Tralthan uses to another to express concern and warning, and Murchison verbalized the non-verbal message. It said, “Be careful, Gurronsevas. After that Trivennleth incident you should not risk attracting attention to yourself.”

“I am grateful for your concern, Pathologist,” he said, “but I am supported by the belief that nothing very unpleasant can happen to an entity who, like myself, is working only for the general good.”

Murchison laughed quietly and said, “Unless this is a social visit, which would be a unique occurrence, what problems are troubling you today?”

Gurronsevas paused for a moment to organize his thoughts, then said, “I have two problems. For the first I require your advice regarding my proposed changes in the Hudlar nutrient paint …”

Briefly he described his visit to Trivennleth and the idea that had come to him during the continuous, insect-laden artificial gale that blew around the ship’s recreation deck. He produced his specimen flask and indicated a few of the insects that were still trying to bite or sting their way through its transparent walls. According to the Hudlars, the effect of these stingers on their organs of absorption was pleasant, stimulating, non-harmful and analogous to being in the thick, soupy fresh air of their home world.

“Even though it would greatly please the Hudlars on the staff,” Gurronsevas went on, “I know that introducing a swarm of their native insects into the FROB section is inappropriate. Instead my intention, subject to Pathology Department’s approval and cooperation, is not to release the insects but to have the contents of their poison sacs analyzed and the toxic material, less than a fraction of one percent by volume, added to the nutrient paint. If it can be produced in the form of a fine grit, a simple modification of the sprayer nozzle will allow minute amounts to be released into the food spray at intervals so that it would affect their absorption organs with the same random distribution as the original insect bites …”

“I cannot believe this,” Thornnastor broke in, turning all four eyes in Gurronsevas’s direction. “Have you forgotten that this is a hospital, where we are supposed to be curing people, rather than trying to poison them? Are you intending deliberately to introduce toxic material into the Hudlar food supply, and you want us to assist you?”

“That is perhaps an overly dramatic simplification, sir,” Gurronsevas replied, “but yes.”

Murchison was shaking its head from side to side, but its teeth were showing. Neither of them spoke.

“I am not myself a doctor,” Gurronsevas went on, “but all of the medically-trained Hudlars with whom I have discussed the idea agree that the introduction of toxic material into their food in trace quantities would increase their eating pleasure, and they feel quite certain that there would be no harmful effects. I am inclined to distrust feelings of certainty when they involve subjective pleasures, remembering the long-term effects of chewing Orligian blue-hemp, smoking Earth tobacco or drinking fermented Dwerlan scrant, all pleasurable and supposedly harmless pastimes. That is why I am asking for your help to find out whether or not this alteration to the Hudlar menu is harmful.

“But if it is harmless,” he went on excitedly, giving them no chance to speak, “just think of the result. No more Hudlars collapsing from malnutrition because their food is so tasteless that they forgot to eat it. Instead they would not forget because they would be looking forward with anticipation to their next spraying. And if the change proved successful here, there is no reason why it should not be introduced on ships and space construction sites wherever Hudlars are working off-planet. It would also, although I assure you that this is not an important consideration with me, be yet another culinary triumph for The Great Gurronsevas which would resound throughout the Federation. I would, of course, give all due credit to your department for the advice and assistance given …”

“I understand,” Thornnastor broke in. “But if the changes you propose prove harmless, they would be important enough for me to discuss them at the next meeting of Diagnosticians where, regrettably, Colonel Skempton will be present. Do you wish to risk attracting its attention?”

“No,” Gurronsevas replied firmly. A moment later he went on, “But I am having difficulty with the idea that a menu change, perhaps one that will turn out to have beneficial and far-reaching effects for the entire off-planet Hudlar population, should be withheld because of my own moral cowardice.”

Thornnastor returned three of its eyes and part of its attention to the examination table before it replied, “Leave your specimens with Pathologist Murchison,” it said. “You mentioned a second problem?”

“Yes,” said Gurronsevas, turning to leave. “The problem is technical rather than medical, a matter of flash-heating a new dish to an ultra-high temperature for a precisely calculated duration so that the edible crust is hard-baked while the filling remains cold. It requires only another lengthy visit to the maintenance levels, which are already well-known to me, to familiarize myself with the food distribution and heat exchange systems adjoining the fusion reactor. No toxic additives are involved, no changes or risk to existing structures and equipment, the procedure I have in mind is perfectly safe and nothing whatever can go wrong.”

“I believe you,” said Pathologist Murchison as it took the specimen flask from him, “but why do I feel so uneasy?”

Eight days later he was remembering Murchison’s words and his own stupid feeling of certainty while Major O’Mara was trying, with considerable psychosomatic success, to remove the thick, Tralthan skin from his back with a verbal flaying. And Gurronsevas’s attempts to explain and excuse served only to make the Chief Psychologist angrier.“… I don’t care if it was a simple technical operation performed routinely by maintenance technicians every two weeks,” said O’Mara quietly, in a strange voice that seemed to increase in fury as it decreased in volume, “or that the maintenance manual says that component failures of this kind are common and there was no cause for alarm because of the back-up system. This time you were there, which is usually reason enough for a catastrophe. And instead of a faulty cleaning cylinder blocking an emergency coolant supply pipe and needing retrieval, the sensors reported a quantity of unidentified ash which should not have been there. Suspecting that the ash indicated a major contamination, the entire reactor was closed down and the hospital went on standby …”

“The ash is harmless,” Gurronsevas said, “a simple organic mixture of …”

“We know it’s harmless,” the Chief Psychologist broke in. “You’ve already told me that, and what you were trying to do with it. But Maintenance doesn’t know, yet, and are investigating very carefully what they think might be a unique and possibly life-threatening situation. I estimate a minimum of two hours before they discover the truth and report it to Colonel Skempton who will want to see me. About you.”

O’Mara paused for a moment, and when it went on it seemed that the anger in its voice was being diluted with sympathy as it said, “By that time I will be able to tell him with certainty that you have left the hospital.”

“But, but Sir,” he protested, “this is unjust. The component failure was an accident, my involvement was peripheral and the offense venial. And two hours! The time limit is unreasonable. There are instructions that I must give my food synthesizer staff and …”

“Neither of us has time to waste debating the concepts of justice and reasonable behavior,” said O’Mara quietly, “nor will you have time for personal farewells. Lioren is waiting to help you clear your accommodation of personal effects and to conduct you to the ship without delay …”

“Where is it going?”“… which will, if or when its primary mission is accomplished,” O’Mara went on, ignoring the question but answering it anyway, “either return you here to face your fate or leave you on a world of your choice, always provided you don’t do something stupid to irritate its captain. Whatever you find to do, please try to stay out of trouble. Good luck, Gurronsevas. And go. Now.”