James White - The Galactic Gourmet

“Oh, no,” he replied firmly. “There are over sixty different food-consuming life-forms in the hospital requiring my attention. Ten, or at most fifteen days.”

“Very well,” said the Lieutenant, nodding. “The observation of minor changes in personality or behavior, which can sometimes be an early indication of a major psychological problem developing, is what we in this department are trained to do. Is there anything else we can do for you?”

“Thank you, no,” said Gurronsevas.

As he was turning to leave, Lioren said, “Speaking of personality changes, we are hearing rumors about Charge Nurse Hredlichli. Over the past few days it has been behaving very oddly, showing sympathy and consideration for its junior ward staff and showing early signs of becoming almost a likable personality. Had your PVSJ menu changes anything to do with that, Chief Dietitian?”

They were all making the quiet, untranslatable sounds which indicated that the question was not a serious one. Gurronsevas laughed softly in return.

“I hope so,” he said. “But I cannot guarantee a similar result with Major O’Mara.”

With the small part of his mind that was not concentrating on collision avoidance in the busy corridors between Psychology and the level housing Food Synthesis Control, Gurronsevas thought about Hredlichli. He had spent much more time than he had intended on the PVSJ exercise, but that was because the chlorine-breather had wanted to talk more than eat, and he knew that, however pleasantly, much of the time had been wasted. But in a few hours’ time Hredlichli and himself would be ending this phase of professional contact, and he was almost sorry.

He was not surprised to see Murchison and Timmins already there when he arrived. The pathologist waved a hand at him and said that it had deserted its department for the rest of the day because this was where the action was. The words sounded like a shameful admission of professional negligence and irresponsibility, but he had learned not to take everything the pathologist said seriously.

Because of Gurronsevas’ anxiety in case anything went wrong, Timmins had been asked to advise on the Maintenance Department support regarding the final program changes that were going into the synthesizer serving the PVSJ dining compartment, and hence was too busy to notice his arrival or even the presence of Murchison. Food Technicians Dremon and Kledath were making it clear by the impatient ruffling of their fur that they did not require advice.

Murchison moved closer to him and said briskly, “We completed our analysis of the sample of protective film used on that item of furniture in the exercise lounge adjoining the chlorine-breathers’ dining area. The material has already been passed as safe, and it still is, but the film applied to that particular exerciser contained a small quantity of foreign matter that was probably introduced accidentally during manufacture. When exposed to the ambient chlorine atmosphere over a long period the material dissolves out, releasing trace quantities of a gas which, although completely foreign to their environment and metabolism, is harmless to chlorine-breathers even in high concentrations. The Illensan in Pathology describes the odor as appetizing. That was a nice piece of observation and deduction on your part.”

“Thank you,” said Gurronsevas. “But most of the credit should go to Hredlichli. It was the Charge Nurse who pointed out to me in the first place that a number of its colleagues who used that piece of equipment before meals — apparently Illensans suffer digestive upsets if they exercise after meals — insisted that it helped them work up an appetite. When one is pointed in the right direction it is much easier to reach one’s destination.”

“You are too modest,” said Murchison. “But what are you planning to do next, and to whom?”

Gurronsevas was thinking that this was the first time in his life that he had ever been accused of modesty, when Timmins, whose head had been bent over the control console display, turned to say, “I can’t wait to hear the answer to that question, too.”

They were all watching him. Even the Kelgians were silent, their fur standing up in tight motionless tufts of curiosity. Gurronsevas knew that he would have to speak very carefully if he was to tell them what but not who.

“The PVSJ was a challenging but almost theoretical exercise for me,” he said, “in that it involved the preparation and presentation of edible materials which I myself could not taste and which would have been instantly lethal had I tried. My next project will be more challenging but less dangerous to all concerned because, although the taste and presentation may be personally obnoxious, the food will not poison me or any other warm-blooded oxygen-breather.

“The test subject this time will be an Earth-human DBDG,” he went on, “a member of the species which makes up more than one-fifth of the hospital’s medical and maintenance staff and whose food preferences, as I know from my long experience in the Cromingan-Shesk, are very difficult to satisfy. Subsequently I hope to deal with the Kelgian, Melfan and Nallajim species, although not necessarily in that order.”

The Kelgians’ fur was eddying about their bodies with a motion too irregular for Gurronsevas to read their feelings with accuracy. Murchison was smiling and Timmins said quickly, “I would be pleased to volunteer, sir.”

“Lieutenant,” said the pathologist firmly. “Join the end of the line.”

He was about to tell them that he no longer needed Earth-human volunteers when the lab communicator lit up with the image of Hredlichli. He saw at once that the Charge Nurse was calling from its private quarters because its features were clearly visible rather than being softened by a pressure envelope.

“Chief Dietitian,” it said, “I would greatly appreciate having another progress report on your latest attempt to synthesize gree in yursil jelly, to which I was looking forward with great eagerness. The sample has not reached me. What happened to it?”

Food Technician Liresschi happened to it, thought Gurronsevas. Aloud, he said, “Progress has been very good since we talked yesterday. In fact, I have finalized for synthesis five additions to the PVSJ menu: two main courses, and the three other complementary or contrasting sauces that we devised for use with existing dishes. By main meal time tomorrow your Illensan friends will be able to test the results. But be sure to remind them that all of the dishes have been synthesized and that the characteristic, lifeless taste of synthesized food about which you have complained is disguised, not removed, by the new material.

“One of the ingredients in the fryelli sauce does not occur naturally on your home world,” he went on, “but Pathology assures me that it is metabolically harmless to you. Its appeal lies in the appetite-enhancing effect of the odor and appearance. The sauce itself is tasteless, but you will have difficulty in believing that anything that looks and smells so pleasant to you does not also taste good.

“Where the gree is concerned,” he continued, “the changes are minor and for the most part visual. The surface of the translucent yursil jelly contains small, irregular convolutions which, when the diner is leaning forward to eat or talk, make it appear that the embedded synthetic gree beetles are in motion and therefore still alive. The weight of visible evidence overwhelms the diner’s taste sensors so that—”

“No doubt it looks and tastes wonderful,” Hredlichli broke in. “But what happened to the sample?”

Choosing his words carefully, Gurronsevas said, “Because it was due shortly to go into production, I sent it to you by way of Food Technician Liresschi for synthesis scanning and additional taste evaluation. Liresschi gave the sample full approval, but said that there were subtleties of taste that required repeated sampling before it was entirely satisfied. Regrettably, there was insufficient sample remaining for it to be worth passing on to you. But I shall be pleased to send you another—”