James White - The Galactic Gourmet

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.

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.