James White - The Galactic Gourmet

For a long moment Gurronsevas argued silently with himself, feeling shame because he could not be sure whether he was using his intelligence or giving in to moral cowardice.

“Well, if it is a matter of my continued survival,” he said reluctantly, “all right.”

Gurronsevas was feeling very proud of himself. He had met and spoken with all the members of his staff individually — and, when required, at length. His principal assistant, a Nidian called Sarnyagh-Sa, had required careful handling because it had been expecting to inherit the retiring Chief Dietitian’s position, but it was able, responsible, a little unresponsive to new ideas as yet, but showed long-term promise. Without ingratiation or implied diminution of his own authority or responsibility, Gurronsevas asked for the help of everyone. His intention was to be approachable by all levels of staff, provided the approach was not a waste of his time. He hoped that relations within other-species Catering would be pleasant and professional, but noted that the degree of the former would be strictly dependent upon the quality of the latter. The general response had been good, although a few of them had thought it strange that the Great Gurronsevas had worn maintenance coveralls during their interviews.

And after just five days of exploring the food supply maintenance tunnels with Timmins and just three half-days of anti-gravity sled driving instruction, the Lieutenant had told him that he need no longer travel on foot or with company. On the sixth day he had driven an unloaded sled from the synthesizer complex under Level Eighteen to the short-term storage facility on Thirty-one, using only the service tunnels and without having to request a navigational fix, in just twenty-four standard minutes without hitting anyone or anything — at least, not hard enough for a written report to be necessary.

Timmins had told him that he was doing exceptionally well for a beginner, and now Gurronsevas was trying hard not to allow his feelings of pride and pleasure to be destroyed by the ill-mannered, acid-tongued, chlorine-breathing Illensan he currently faced.

“When we need one of you people quickly,” said Charge Nurse Hredlichli, “it seems that the maintenance sub-species suddenly becomes extinct; and when we don’t want you, you clutter up the place. What is it you want?”

Since the Cromingan-Shesk had not catered for chlorine-breathers, it was the first time he had seen one of the PVSJ classification at close range. The Illensan’s spiny, membranous body resembled a haphazard collection of oily, unhealthy vegetation that was partially obscured by the yellow mist of chlorine inside the entity’s protective envelope, and Gurronsevas found himself wishing that the fog had been denser. Hredlichli was drifting motionless in the water-filled Nurses’ Station in front of a patient-monitor screen. He had not been able to locate its eyes amid the tangle of head-fronds, but presumably the Charge Nurse was looking at him.

“I am Chief Dietitian Gurronsevas, Charge Nurse, not a maintenance technician,” he said, making a great effort to be polite. “With your help I would like to interview one or more of your patients regarding the ward food supply, with a view to making improvements. Could you suggest the name of one that I can talk to without interrupting its medical treatment?”

“I could not suggest a name,” said Hredlichli, “because our patients do not give them. On Chalderescol a person’s name is known only to close members of its family and is otherwise given only to its intended life-mate. Here they are known by their medical filenames. AUGL One-Thirteen is convalescent and unlikely to be seriously stressed by a lot of stupid questions, so you may talk to it. Nurse Towan!”

A voice from the communicator, faintly distorted by the intervening watery medium, said, “Yes, Charge Nurse.”

“When you finish changing One-Twenty-Two’s dressings,” said Hredlichli, “please ask One-Thirteen to come to the Nurses’ Station. It has a visitor.” To Gurronsevas it went on, “In case you don’t know, a Chalder won’t fit in here without wrecking the place. Wait outside.”

The ward was probably smaller than it looked, Gurronsevas thought as he awaited the arrival of AUGL-113, but size and distance were hard to judge in this dim, green world where the difference between the shadowy inhabitants, their medical equipment, and the decorative vegetation designed to make them feel at home was difficult to define. Timmins had told him that some of the plants were living rather than artificial, a species that gave off a water-borne aromatic which the patients found pleasant, and that it was Maintenance Department’s responsibility to see that the foliage stayed healthy no matter what happened to the patients. Sometimes it was difficult to know when the Lieutenant was being serious. It had also told him that the natives of the ocean world of Chalderescol embarrassed easily and were the most visually fearsome beings that he was ever likely to meet.

That, Gurronsevas thought as he watched the enormous, tentacled, torpedo shape that was speeding silently towards him, he could believe.

The creature was like an enormous armored fish with a heavy, knife-edged tail, a seemingly haphazard arrangement of stubby fins, and, around its waist, a thick ring of tentacles projecting through some of the only openings visible in its organic armor. The tentacles lay flat against its body while it was moving forward, but they were long enough to reach forward past the thick, blunt wedge of its head. As it swam closer and began to circle him, one of its tiny, lidless eyes regarded him. It drifted to a halt and its waist tentacles fanned forward to hang in a great, undulating circle around it. Suddenly the mouth opened to reveal a vast, pink cavern edged with the largest, whitest, sharpest teeth Gurronsevas had ever seen.

“Are, are you my visitor?” it asked shyly.

Gurronsevas hesitated, wondering whether or not he should introduce himself. A member of a culture which did not use names other than among family or loved ones might feel embarrassment if he should use his. He should have remembered to ask the Charge Nurse about that.

“Yes,” he said finally. “If you have nothing more important to do and will allow it, I would like to talk to you about Chalder food.”

“With pleasure,” said AUGL-113. “It is an interesting topic that causes much argument but rarely leads to violence.”

“About hospital food,” said Gurronsevas.

“Oh,” said the Chalder.

He did not have to be a Cinrusskin empath to sense the deep criticism implied by that single word. He said quickly, “It is my intention, in fact I have accepted it as a personal and professional challenge, to improve the quality, taste and presentation of the synthetic food provided by the hospital to its many life-forms. Before any improvement is possible I must know in what way or ways the present synthesized diets, which to me seem little more than near-tasteless organic fuel, fall short of the ideal. The work has just begun, and you are the first patient to be interviewed.”

The cavernous mouth closed slowly then opened again. The patient said, “A laudable ambition, but surely unattainable? I must remember your phrase, tasteless organic fuel. Using it to a host on Chalder would be the ultimate culinary insult, because there we take our food seriously, and often in excess. What can I tell you?”

“Practically everything,” said Gurronsevas gratefully, “because my ignorance regarding Chalder food is total. What edible animal and vegetable varieties are there? How are they prepared, presented and served? On the majority of worlds the methods of presentation stimulates the taste sensors and adds much to the enjoyment. Is it so on Chalderescol? What spices, sauces or condiments are used? And the concept of a culinary spectrum which is comprised of only cold dishes is completely new to me …”