James White - The Galactic Gourmet

Danalta’s physiological classification was TOBS. It belonged to a species that had evolved on a planet with a highly eccentric orbit which produced climatic changes so violent that an incredible degree of physical adaptability was necessary for survival. The species had become dominant on its world and developed intelligence and a civilization, not by competing in the evolution of natural weapons but by refining and perfecting their adaptive capability. When faced by natural enemies or life-threatening events they had the four options of flight, protective mimicry, the assumption of a shape frightening to the attacker, or encasing themselves in a dense, hard shell. The species was basically amoebic but with the ability to extrude any limbs, sense organs or protective tegument necessary to any environment or situation in which it might find itself.“… In pre-sapient times the speed and accuracy of the mimicry was all-important,” Danalta went on, and without a pause in its conversation it took the shape of a scaled-down Tralthan who was a perfect miniature of Gurronsevas himself, then more life-sized replicas of Naydrad and Murchison. “To avert a threat by natural predators, rapid reproduction of the would-be attacker’s actions and behavior patterns were an important part of the process. This meant that we also had to develop the faculty of receptive empathy so that we could know how the other being expected us to look and act although, needless to say, it lacks the range and sensitivity of Doctor Prilicla’s empathic faculty.

“With such physical and psychological protection available,” it continued, “our species has become impervious to bodily damage other than by physical annihilation or the application of ultra-high temperatures, which are threats posed by modern technology rather than natural enemies. While we have no trouble mimicking an infant in every detail we still, regrettably, die of old age.”

“Fascinating,” said Gurronsevas. “But surely, with this natural protection available, your species has no great need for doctors?”

“You are right,” Danalta replied, “there is no need for the healing arts on my world, and I am not a doctor. But to a mimic of my capabilities, and at this point I must say that they are considered much greater than average among my people, an establishment like Sector General represents a tremendous challenge. Because of the work I am able to do on Rhabwar and among the ward patients, my friends insist on giving me that title.

“Do you have another question, Chief Dietitian?”

Gurronsevas felt himself warming towards this utterly strange being who, like himself, had come here solely because of the professional challenge.

While he was still trying to frame his simple question, which to a species as weird as Danalta’s might give offense in a politely roundabout fashion, he felt a sudden dizziness. Rhabwar had reached Jump distance and entered hyperspace, a fact confirmed by the direct vision ports which were showing only a flickering greyness.

Prilicla said gently, “Gurronsevas, your hesitancy suggests that the question you wish to ask may be an indelicate one dealing, perhaps, with the subject of reproduction? Please remember that Danalta is a receptive empath, as am I. We are not telepaths. We feel that you have another question. We do not know what it is, only that you feel the answer to be important.”

“Yes, it is important to me,” Gurronsevas admitted, then went on, “Doctor Danalta, what do you eat?”

Pathologist Murchison leaned its head back and laughed, Charge Nurse Naydrad’s silvery fur was rolling in slow, uneven waves from nose to tail, and Prilicla’s body was reacting to what Gurronsevas now knew to be a sudden burst of pleasant emotional radiation. Only Danalta’s body was still and its words serious.

“I am afraid that I will prove a grave disappointment to you, Chief Dietitian,” it said, “because my species does not possess the sense of taste. Apart from the ultra-hard metals, I can and do eat anything and everything regardless of consistency or appearance. In moments of deep mental concentration I have been known to dissolve a hole in the deck plating on which I am resting, and in the past this has caused great annoyance to the ship’s officers.”

“I know the feeling well,” said Gurronsevas.

While the others were displaying amusement in their varying fashions, he was remembering Lioren’s final words to him. Gurronsevas was on probation, the Padre had warned him, and there were things he must try to do and not to do. Obviously he must make no attempt to tinker with the ship’s food synthesizer. Above all, he must remember that he was on a small ship carrying a very small crew of specialists, and he must try very hard to make friends rather than enemies of them. Since the medical team had come aboard he had been trying to do that, by negating his own importance and displaying a friendly and admiring curiosity about Danalta and, in time, the others. Surprisingly, it had not required a great effort on his part, but now he was wondering whether he had overdone the uncharacteristic charm and they secretly thought of him as being shallow and insincere, or was it simply that they were trying as hard to be friendly as he was. He was also wondering if he would have as much success making friends with Rhabwar’s non-medical officers.

As if on thought-cue the internal comm screen lit up to show the Monitor-green-uniformed head and shoulders of an Earth-human.

“Casualty Deck, this is the Captain,” it said sharply. “I overheard your last few minutes’ conversation. Doctor Prilicla, what is that, that walking Tralthan disaster area doing on my ship?”

Even though Control was at long range for the Cinrusskin’s empathic faculty, the Captain’s emotional radiation was causing the empath some minor distress. Without hesitation Prilicla said, “For the period of the present mission, friend Gurronsevas has been co-opted to the medical team as a non-clinical advisor. Its expertise could prove helpful in what lies ahead. Please do not be concerned about possible effects on the structure of the ship, friend Fletcher. The Chief Dietitian will be accommodated on the casualty deck, it requires no special life-support and it will not risk damaging your light-gravity furniture and equipment by going forward, unless at your express invitation.”

There was a moment’s silence, but Gurronsevas was too startled and confused by Prilicla’s words, to be able to fill it with a question.

He had often heard it said that the little empath was not averse to bending the truth, a fact which Prilicla itself freely admitted, if by so doing it could improve the quality of emotional radiation in the area. An emotion-sensitive felt everything that those around it were feeling with the same degree of intensity, but the suggestion that Gurronsevas could advise Rhabwar’s medical team on anything during the forthcoming mission was utterly ridiculous. Doubtless the lie would improve the Captain’s emotional radiation, Gurronsevas thought, but the effect would be temporary.

“I feel your curiosity, friend Fletcher,” said Prilicla, no longer trembling as the Captain’s anger diminished to irritation, “and I intend to satisfy it as soon as possible.”

“Very well, Doctor,” said the Captain, then went on briskly, “We are presently in hyperspace cruising mode, estimating the Wemar system in just under four standard days and the ship is running itself. A few minutes before boarding I was given the coordinates of the target system and the preliminary briefing tape, which there has been no opportunity to scan, and told that we would be fully briefed on arrival. Now would be a convenient time to run the tape so that we non-medics can be let into the secret of what we are supposed to be doing there.”