James White - The Galactic Gourmet

“I am not angry with you,” said Remrath suddenly.

And black is white, thought Gurronsevas. But this was not the time to start an argument. He felt that Remrath had more to say, and remained silent.

“In a time that surprised us all by its short duration,” Remrath went on, “and in spite of your horrendous appearance, we have come to feel at ease in your presence. You have gained our respect and, with one of us at least, our friendship. But we are very angry and disappointed with the preservers on your ship and, as one of the off-worlders, you must share in our anger.”

“I understand,” said Gurronsevas.

He knew that all of his conversations in the mine were being monitored by Rhabwar and Tremaar, but for many days they had paid him the compliment of not continually telling him what to ask or answer. There were times, as now, when he would have gladly done without both the compliment and the responsibility.

“But the preservers, like myself, want only to help the Wem. You must all know and believe that. Why are you now so angry with them? And what must I do to regain your friendship?”

In the angry, impatient voice of one who is speaking to a stupid child, Remrath said, “They are continuing to withhold Creethar from us.”

Gurronsevas was relieved. It seemed that the two problems had a single solution, the speedy return of their grievously injured hunter. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Your offspring will be returned to you as soon as possible. I am not myself a preserver so I cannot say with accuracy how long you will have to wait. I shall ask the preservers for their best estimate. Or you could visit the ship and see for yourself what is happening to Creethar and ask them any questions you wish.”

“No!” said Remrath sharply, as sharply as it had done on the other occasions when a visit to Creethar was suggested. Angrily it went on, “You are most insensitive, Gurronsevas. It hurts me to say this but I, too, am beginning to suspect you, as well as the other off-worlders, of gross and selfish dishonesty. I want you to prove me wrong, and until you do we shall not speak again. Go back to your ship and tell your friends to return Creethar to us without delay.”

Remembering his last conversation with Prilicla, Gurronsevas set off for Rhabwar wondering if there was anyone anywhere who wanted his company. If it still lived, the Wem patient would talk to him and, hopefully, explain the strange behavior of Remrath and the others. Mysteries and unanswered questions were like heaps of trash littering a mind, and he liked to think that his mind was at least as well-ordered as his kitchens. He would suggest to Prilicla that he be allowed to speak to Creethar on his return.

“I was about to make the same suggestion to you, friend Gurronsevas,” the empath said, surprising him. “The situation with the Wem is deteriorating more rapidly than you realize, and for no apparent reason. Did you know that they have broken contact entirely, switched off the communicators we left with them, after telling us that off-worlders were no longer welcome in the mine? Creethar is the only channel of communication left open to us; but it, too, has said repeatedly that it does not want to talk to off-worlders.”

Prilicla indicated the patient’s bed and flew slowly towards it. No other members of the medical team were present, Gurronsevas noted, possibly because Creethar was no longer in danger, or because it objected strongly to them being there. It was nice to have his supposition proved true.

“Clinically,” Prilicla went on, “friend Creethar is doing very well. Since the application of your locally derived medication, its condition has advanced from critical to pre-convalescent. Its emotional radiation, however, is not good. There is a deep and continuing anxiety, a dread, that it is trying to conceal and control. It refuses to discuss the problem with us in spite of my attempts at reassurance …”

Not only was Prilicla emotion-sensitive, Gurronsevas reminded himself, the little Cinrusskin was a projective empath as well. Unless there was serious emotional distress present, it could make everyone feel better just by flying into a crowded room.“… During our last and very short conversation with it,” said Prilicla, “it asked about its parent Remrath, the hunting party, and events at the mine. That was two days ago. Since then it has refused to speak or even listen to us, and it became extremely distressed whenever we tried to discuss the case in its presence, so much so that I switched off its translator whenever we were doing so. It is also refusing to eat. Unknown to it, we are continuing to feed it intravenously; but, psychologically and clinically, we both know that the speedy recovery of a convalescent patient is improved by the intake of solid food. In this case the patient is so gravely weakened by malnutrition that without it Creethar’s termination cannot be long delayed.

“But you, friend Gurronsevas, have four distinct advantages over us,” the empath continued. “It has not yet met you while conscious. You are not a medic and will therefore not feel the temptation to discuss the patient’s clinical condition in its presence. You are a master cook who may be able to discover the patient’s food preferences. And lastly, you have first-hand information on recent events in the mine. That is why I would like you to talk to Creethar as soon as possible.”

With its iridescent wings beating slowly, the Senior Physician drifted to a halt above the patient’s bed before going on. “You have been accepted as a friend by these people, much more so than any of the medical team. But do not assume, because you have grown to like and respect one of them, that they are human. They are not human, whether your yardstick is Earth-human, Cinrusskin-human, or even Tralthan-human like yourself; they are Wem-human. That difference, compounded by something we have said or done wrong, is the reason why they are no longer our friends.”

“I will be careful,” said Gurronsevas.

“I know you will,” said Prilicla. It extended a delicate forward manipulator and briefly touched a stud on the bed console. “I will monitor and report on the patient’s emotional response on a closed frequency. Its translator has been switched on. Friend Creethar’s eyes are closed but it is awake and listening to us. It is better that I leave you now.”

Creethar lay on the treatment bed in a position that allowed the casts enclosing its injured limbs to be suspended comfortably in a system of cross-braced slings that reminded Gurronsevas of the cordage on an old-time sailing ship. The remainder of the body and tail were immobilized by restraining straps, but he did not know whether these were to protect the patient against self-injury or the medical attendants from attack. The casts were transparent and there were no bandages, dressings, or Wem poultices visible, so that he could see that the many infected wounds that had covered the hunter’s body were healed or healing. Suddenly it opened its eyes.

“Great Shavrah!” Creethar burst out, its whole body fighting the restraints. “What kind of hulking, stupid beast are you?”

Gurronsevas ignored the insult and responded only to the question.

“I am a Tralthan,” he said reassuringly. “That is, I am a member of a species larger and perhaps more visually fearsome than the others you have met on the ship. Like them, however, I mean you no harm. Unlike them I am a cook and not a healer. But I, too, wish only to help return you to full …”

“A cook who isn’t a healer?” Creethar broke in. Its voice was quieter and the body was beginning to relax inside the restraints. “That is strange, off-worlder. Were you incapable of completing your education?”