James White - The Galactic Gourmet

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.”

Unlike O’Mara, it was possible to reason with Lioren, at least to the extent of convincing it that the time saved in clearing his quarters should be added to that needed to leave proper instructions to his food technicians. Much time was wasted even so, because his people spent more of it regretting his departure and wishing him well than listening to his orders, so much so that he was feeling quite embarrassed when his time ran out and he had to leave the hospital.