James White - The Galactic Gourmet

“I’ll explain it to you later, Cha Thrat,” said Braithwaite, smiling. “Lioren, psychologically that is sound advice, but Skempton is unlikely to be influenced as easily by Gurronsevas’s cooking. His psych file says he is a vegetarian, which means that—”

“Now that I don’t understand,” Cha Thrat broke in again. “Why should a member of the DBDG classification, which is omnivorous, elect to become a herbivore? Especially when the basic food material is synthetic anyway. Is it some kind of religious requirement?”

“Perhaps,” Lioren replied, “it has beliefs similar to the Ull, who say that to eat the flesh of another creature, sentient or otherwise, is to preserve its soul within the eater. But the Colonel has never consulted me on religious matters so I am unable to speak with certainty.”

“Cooking for herbivores,” said Gurronsevas, “has never been a problem for me.”

Braithwaite nodded and Cha Thrat remained silent. Both of them were looking at the padre, all of whose eyes were directed steadily at Gurronsevas.

“May I also remind you,” said Lioren quietly, “that this is a very large establishment housing many thousands of entities who, because of the nature of the work they do and their feelings and motivations regarding it, tend to have very short memories where the occasional interpersonal conflicts are concerned. If people held grudges in a place like this the level of mental health would be very low, and the type of person who would hold a grudge is excluded by the psychological screening.

“It may be that other events will transpire,” it went on, “although hopefully not with as much potentiality for disaster as your own recent adventure, which will turn Colonel Skempton’s attention in other directions and reduce its present hostility towards you. You are to leave the hospital soon, you say, but as a measure of time that period is flexible and your departure might not be permanent. To God or fate or whatever random operation of the laws of chance that you may or may not believe in, all things are possible.”

Lioren paused for a moment, then added, “My advice is to follow the Major’s advice and concentrate on the work that you are uniquely qualified to perform, and do not give up hope.”

The advice was sound if ridiculously overoptimistic, Gurronsevas thought. But when he left them he was walking quietly and he did not know why he was feeling better.

The feeling of optimism lasted for only a few hours, and during the first three days of maintaining a low profile he grew increasingly depressed, uncertain and lonely. His visits to his food synthesizer staff and Pathology became infrequent and brief because the people in both places kept looking at him when they thought his attention was elsewhere, but whether it was with sympathy or morbid curiosity he did not know. Apart from those few occasions he remained in his quarters, refused to answer the communicator and ate only from the food dispenser, which did not help lift his depression one little bit.

In the middle of the fourth day someone began tapping politely but with extraordinary persistence on his door. It was Padre Lioren.

“We have not seen you in the dining hall recently,” it said before he could speak. “You could be overdoing the low profile instruction, Gurronsevas, because a complete absence will often attract more attention than a normal presence. In any case, most other species, myself included, have difficulty telling Tralthans apart without reading their IDs. I am on my way to the dining hall now. Would you like to join me?”

“My room,” said Gurronsevas, embarrassment making him irritable, “is far from your normal path between the Psychology Department and the dining hall.”

“True,” said Lioren. “Perhaps I was making another call on this level, or I could be telling a therapeutic untruth. Which it is you will never know.”

Without knowing why, Gurronsevas said, “All right, I’ll come.”

If more than the usual number of entities were watching him, he did not know about it because he kept his four eyes directed on Lioren, Braithwaite, Cha Thrat and his platter, and none of the conversations at nearby tables were about him. When he joined the others Gurronsevas wondered aloud how they had been able to obtain O’Mara’s permission to leave their office unattended, and Braithwaite told him that it was an unwritten law of the hospital that nobody became mentally disturbed while the Psychology Department was out to lunch. Gurronsevas suspected that to be another therapeutic untruth, and decided that they were trying to humor him.

But very quickly the conversation became serious.

“We hear that you haven’t been spending much time at the food synthesizers these past few days,” said Lieutenant Braithwaite suddenly, “and there have been no recent menu changes. Was this by choice or is your work being hampered by others? O’Mara wants to know.”

Surrounded as he was by three psychologists, he decided that it would be pointless not to tell the truth.

“Both,” said Gurronsevas. “I had an aversion to meeting people, and my work was hampered, not by others but by a shortage of necessary supplies. I had intended seeking Skempton’s assistance in providing them, because they are not on the normal list of provisions and may be expensive to bring here, but I am forbidden to speak to the Colonel.”

“I see,” said Braithwaite. After a moment’s thought it went on, “In this medical madhouse we order up so much weird and wonderful stuff, equipment and medication and such, that procurement isn’t normally a problem for any head of department …Are you on friendly terms with Thornnastor.”

“Thornnastor has always behaved politely towards me,” said Gurronsevas. “But I fail to see the relevance of the Diagnostician-in-Charge of Pathology in this matter.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Lioren, “at least not yet. But if you were to explain your difficulty to Thornnastor, it should be possible to circumvent the Colonel. Skempton’s principal assistant is the Chief of Procurement, Creon-Emesh. It and Thornnastor have been close friends for many years, so much so that it would be difficult for either to refuse a favor asked by the other.”

“I understand,” said Gurronsevas. “When two members of a species engage in such a long-term emotional and sexual relationship, they think and feel as one …”

He broke off because Braithwaite and Cha Thrat seemed to be having respiration difficulties. Before he could express his concern, Lioren said, “They have been playing bominyat together, many say to planetary championship level, at every opportunity for more than a decade. Creon-Emesh is a Nidian, so the relationship is not, therefore, physical.”

“My deepest apologies to both entities,” said Gurronsevas in confusion. “But if Creon-Emesh is the Colonel’s assistant, would it not tell—”

“It would not,” said Braithwaite firmly. “It may be that I am divulging privileged information from Creon-Emesh’s psych file …”

“I would say there was no doubt about it,” said Lioren.“… when I tell you that the Chief of Procurement is an intelligent, able and ambitious entity who does not believe in bothering its superior with trifles, or even serious problems which it is capable of solving itself. In short, it is one of those rare and valued assistants who is constantly trying to make its superior redundant. It has respect but no strong affection for Skempton, and it will be aware of the Colonel’s present antipathy towards you, so if you were to make the request in confidence and word it so that Creon-Emesh was faced with a challenge in the bominyat tradition …”

“With a mind as devious as that,” said Cha Thrat, “the Lieutenant should play bominyat.”“… you might get your supplies,” Braithwaite continued, ignoring the interruption, “without the Colonel knowing anything about it. Or would you prefer me to make the suggestion to Creon-Emesh?”