James White - Final Diagnosis

Except for the natural sleeping periods prescribed for Earthhuman DBDG patients, he was not confined to bed.

During his first day on board, there was one very thorough physical examination, which included the withdrawal of tissue and blood specimens. While it was being done, the entire medical team stood and hovered around his bed, displaying a degree of readiness that was hair-raising in its implications while radiating a level of anxiety that even he could feel, in case he reacted in some clinically melodramatic fashion. Apart from that one examination nothing whatever was done for or to him and, because he had not reacted in any fashion whatever, they spent the next two days asking him endless questions while trying to avoid answering his.

Pathologist Murchison was a fellow Earth-human as well as being closer in personality and appearance to Hewlitt’s idea of what a medical guardian angel should look like. The next time she was on casualty watch, he tried to start a polite argument with her in the hope that she, at least, would let something slip that would tell him what they were planning to do with him.

Hewlitt knew that he did not have to control his irritation because Prilicla was resting in its cabin and out of empathic range. He began, “Everyone seems to be asking me the same questions that Medalont and all my other doctors have already asked many times, and I am giving the same answers. I’d like to help if I can, but how? You won’t answer questions or tell me anything at all about my condition. What do you think is wrong with me, and why won’t you tell me what you are trying to do about it?”

The pathologist swung around in her seat at the diagnostic console and looked away from its big viewscreen, which had been displaying a succession of still images that resembled the top surfaces of slabs of pink and purple-veined marble, but were more likely to be sections of other-species tissue with something nasty wrong with them. Maybe, Hewlitt thought, she had been expecting the pictures to bore him to sleep.

She gave a long sigh, and said, “This information would have been given to you during the post-landing briefing tomorrow but, seeing that there has been no change in your clinical condition over the past three days, there is no good reason for keeping it from you until then. You will not like the answers I give you because…

“Is, is it bad news?” he broke in. “I’d rather know the worst. I think.”

“If you want answers,” she said, “don’t interrupt. This is embarrassing for me as it is.”

Embarrassing for you, Hewlitt thought. He said, “I’m sorry, please go on.

She nodded, then said, “It is not good news, or bad news, it is no news. First, we kept asking the same questions in the hope that you would tell us something new, something you omitted to tell Medalont or the others, something that we can believe and act upon. According to Prilicla, your emotional radiation indicates that you are not consciously lying, but the truth you are telling us is not helpful at all. Your second question, what is wrong with you. Well, so far as we have been able to discover, you are not only well, you are an unusually fit and healthy specimen of an Earth-human male DBDG. The answer is that nothing is wrong with you.

She took a deep breath that expanded the spectacular chest inside her tight, white coveralls, further reminding him that he was a healthy male, and went on, “That being the case, Patient Hewlitt, we should declare you a healthy hypochondriac with psychological problems and tell you to go home and stop wasting our time as many of your other medics have done in the past…

She held up one small, well-formed hand and said, “No, don’t elevate your blood pressure, we aren’t going to do that. At least, not until we have found an explanation for your strange early case history and the more recent regeneration of Morredeth’s damaged fur, which may or may not be related. We are hoping to find the relationship, if there is one, on Etla. That is where the initial strange occurrences took place, and where your help, advice, and memories of those early episodes will be much appreciated during the investigation.

“So the answer to your third question,” she ended, smiling, “is that we don’t know what to do with you.”

“I’d be pleased to help,” Hewlitt said, “but my childhood memories might not be accurate enough for your purpose. Have you thought of that?”

“According to the Psychology Department,” she replied, “your memory is like everything else about you, well-nigh perfect. Now, Patient Hewlitt, will you please go to sleep and let me work.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “What are you doing?”

She sighed again and said, “Among other things I am comparing a series of enlarged scanner visuals of DBDG and otherspecies brains, including your own, in the hope of finding a structural variation or abnormality that might explain how you were able to do some of the things you have done, if it was you and not another as yet unidentified agency that was responsible. I don’t really expect to find evidence of a faculty that enables its possessor to perform miracles, but I have to try. Now go to sleep.”

A few minutes later she went on, “Are you sure you have told us everything? Were there any incidents, so minor or trivial that you didn’t think they were worth mentioning, like the episode with your teeth, for example, while you were a child or adult? How about contacts with people who were ill, either at home or in your working environment? For some reason the case notes make no mention of your profession or occupation. Did you have any contacts with animals, other than your kitten, that might have been ill or recently recovered from an illness, or were there any other…

“Do you mean my sheep?” said Hewlitt.

“I might mean your sheep,” said Murchison. “Tell me about

“Them,” he corrected.

“You’re a shepherd?” she said. “I didn’t think they had shepherds these days. Go on.”

“I’m not and they do,” he said. “Sheepherding is a rare, specialized, and very well paid job, especially when they work for me. I inherited the family business from my grandparents, because my father was the only son and he preferred a career in the space service. When he died in the flyer crash, well, I was the last Hewlitt. The case notes didn’t mention my job because nearly everyone on Earth knew who I was and what I did.

“I run Hewlitt the Tailor.”

“And I have the feeling that I should be impressed,” said Murchison. “Sorry, but I wasn’t born on Earth.”

“Neither were ninety-odd percent of the Federation citizens,” he said, “so I’m not offended. It is a small but very exclusive company that can charge the Earth and moon for its services, which is to provide handcrafted, custom-built garments made from the original, handwoven or spun tweeds and fine worsted materials. In these days of cheap, synthesized clothing there are people who are willing and wealthy enough to pay our prices, or even to try bribing their way onto our waiting list. But in spite of the fearsome prices we charge, the profit margin isn’t excessive. We have to maintain herds of sheep and other wool-bearing animals, who are classified as protected species. They still need to be shorn periodically, which is how we get the raw material for our weaving mill, but the high level and cost of health care our animals are given you wouldn’t believe.

“My job requires periodic inspection visits to our herds,” he went on, “which includes feeling the quality of wool on a few of the animals before shearing. But they are never, ever allowed to take sick or catch any infectious diseases. So I’m sorry. This information isn’t very useful to you, is it?”