Sector General

by James White

Accident

Retlin complex was Nidia's largest air terminal, its only spaceport, and,

MacEwan thought cynically, its most popular zoo. The main concourse was thronged

with furry native airline passengers, sightseers, and ground personnel, but the

thickest crowd was outside the transparent walls of the off-planet departure

lounge where Nidians of all ages jostled each other in their eagerness to see

the waiting space travelers.

But the crowd parted quickly before the Corpsmen escorting MacEwan and his

companion—no native would risk giving offense to an offworlder by making even

accidental bodily contact. From the departure lounge entrance, the two were

directed to a small office whose transparent walls darkened into opacity at

their approach.

The man facing them was a full Colonel and the ranking Monitor Corps officer on

Nidia, but until they had seated themselves he remained standing, respectfully,

as befitted one who was meeting for the first time the great Earth-human MacEwan

and the equally legendary Orligian Grawlya-Ki. He remained on his feet for a

moment longer while he looked with polite disapproval at their uniforms, torn

and stained relics of an

almost forgotten war, then he glanced toward the solidograph that occupied one

corner of his desk and sat down.

Quietly he began, "The planetary assembly has decided that you are no longer

welcome on Nidia, and you are requested to leave at once. My organization, which

is the closest thing we have to a neutral extraplanetary police force, has been

asked to implement this request. I would prefer that you leave without the use

of physical coercion. I am sorry. This is not pleasant for me, either, but I

have to say that I agree with the Nidians. Your peacemongering activities of

late have become much too... warlike."

Grawlya-Ki's chest swelled suddenly, making its stiff, spi-key fur rasp dryly

against the old battle harness, but the Orligian did not speak. MacEwan said

tiredly, "We were just trying to make them understand that—"

"I know what you were trying to do," the Colonel broke in, "but half wrecking a

video studio during a rehearsal was not the way to do it. Besides, you know as

well as I do that your supporters were much more interested in taking part in a

riot than in promulgating your ideas. You simply gave them an excuse to—"

"The play glamorized war," MacEwan said.

The Monitor's eyes flickered toward the solidograph, then back to Grawlya-Ki and

MacEwan again. His, tone softened. "I'm sorry, believe me, but you will have to

leave. I cannot force it, but ideally you should return to your home planets

where you could relax and live out your remaining years in peace. Your wounds

must have left mental scars and you may require psychiatric assistance; and,

well, I think both of you deserve some of the peace that you want-so desperately

for everyone else."

When there was no response, the Colonel sighed and said, "Where do you want to

go this time?" '

"Traltha," MacEwan said.

The Monitor looked surprised. "That is a hot, high-gravity, heavily

industrialized world, peopled by lumbering, six-legged elephants who are

hardworking, peaceloving, and culturally stable. There hasn't been a war on

Traltha for a thousand years. You would be wasting your time there, and feeling

very uncomfortable while doing so, but it's your choice."

"On Traltha," MacEwan said, "commercial warfare never stops. One kind of war can

lead to another."

The Colonel made no attempt to disguise his impatience. "You are frightening

yourselves without reason and, in any case, maintaining the peace is our

concern. We do it quietly, discreetly, by keeping potentially troublesome

entities and situations under observation, and by making the minimum response

early, before things can get out of control. We do a good job, if I do say so

myself. But Traltha is not a danger, now or in the foreseeable future." He

smiled. "Another war between Orligia and Earth would be more likely."

"That will not happen, Colonel," Grawlya-Ki said, its modulated growling

forming a vaguely threatening accompaniment to the accentless speech coming from

its translator pack. "Former enemies who have beaten hell out of each other

make the best friends. But there has to be an easier way of making friends."

Before the officer could reply, MacEwan went on quickly, "I understand what the

Monitor Corps is doing, Colonel, and I approve. Everybody does. It is rapidly

becoming accepted as the Federation's executive and law-enforcement arm. But it

can never become a truly multispecies service. Its officers, of necessity, will

be almost entirely Earth-human. With so much power entrusted to one species—"

"We are aware of the danger," the Colonel broke in. Defensively he went on,

"Our psychologists are working on the problems and our people are highly trained

in e-t cultural contact procedures. And we have the authority to ensure that

the members of every ship's crew making other-species contacts are

similarly-gained,. Everyone is aware of the danger of uttering or commiting an

unthinking word or action which could be construed as insulting and of what

might ensue. We lean over backward in our efforts not to give offense. You know

that."

The Colonel was first and foremost a policeman, MacEwan thought, find like a

good policeman he resented any criticism of his service. What was more, his

irritation with the two aging war veterans was rapidly reaching the point where

the interview would be terminated. Take it easy, he warned himself, this is not

an enemy.

Aloud he said, "The point I'm trying to make is that leaning over backward is an

inherently unstable position, and this hy-perpoliteness where extraterrestrials

are concerned is artificial, even dishonest. The tensions generated must

ultimately lead to trouble, even between the handpicked and highly intelligent

entities who are the only people allowed to make off-planet contacts. This type

of contact is too narrow, too limited. The member species of the Federation are

not really getting to know and trust each other, and they never will until

contact becomes more relaxed and natural. As things are it would be unthinkable

to have even a friendly argument with an extraterrestrial.

"We must get to really know them, Colonel," MacEwan went on quickly. "Well

enough not to have to be so damnably polite all the time. If a Tralthan jostles

a Nidian or an Earth; human, we must know the being well enough to tell it to

watch where it's going and to call it any names which seem appropriate to the

occasion. We should expect the same treatment if the fault is ours. Ordinary

people, not a carefully selected and trained star-traveling elite, must get to

know offworlders well enough to be able to argue or even to quarrel nonviolently

with them, without—"

"And that," the Monitor said coldly, rising to his feet, "is the reason you are

leaving Nidia. For disturbing the peace."

Hopelessly, MacEwan tried again. "Colonel, we must find some common ground on

which the ordinary citizens of the Federation can meet. Not just because of

scientific and cultural exchanges or interstellar trade treaties. It must be

something basic, something we all feel strongly about, an idea or a project that

we can really get together on. In spite of our much-vaunted Federation and the

vigilance of your Monitor Corps, perhaps because of that vigilance, we are not

getting to know each other properly. Unless we do another war is inevitable. But

nobody worries. You've all forgotten how terrible war is."

He broke off as the Colonel pointed slowly to the solido-graph on his desk, then

brought the hand back to his side again. "We have a constant reminder," he said.

After that the Colonel would say no more, but remained standing stiffly at

attention until Grawlya-Ki and MacEwan left the office.

The departure lounge was more than half filled with tight, exclusive little

groups of Tralthans, Melfans, Kelgians, and Illensans. There was also a pair of

squat, tentacular, heavy-gravity beings who were apparently engaged in spraying

each other with paint, and which were a new life-form to MacEwan. A

teddybearlike Nidian wearing the blue sash of the nontechnical ground staff

moved from behind them to escape the spray, but otherwise ignored the creatures.

There was some excuse for the chlorine-breathing Illensans to keep to

themselves: the loose, transparent material of their protective envelopes looked

fragile. He did not know anything about the paint-spraying duo, but the others

were all warmblooded, oxygen-breathing life-forms with similar pressure and

gravity requirements and they should, at least, have been acknowledging each

others' presence even if they did not openly display the curiosity they must be

feeling toward each other. Angrily, MacEwan turned away to examine the traffic

movements display.

There was an lllensan factory ship in orbit, a great, ungainly nonlander whose

shuttle had touched down a few minutes earlier, and a Nidian ground transporter

fitted with the chlorine breathers' life-support was on the way in to pick up

passengers. Their Tralthan-built and crewed passenger ship was nearly ready to

board and stood on its apron on the other side of the main aircraft runway. It

was one of the new ships which boasted of providing comfortable accommodation

for six different oxygen-breathing species, but degrees of comfort were relative

and MacEwan, Grawlya-Ki, and the other non-Tralthans in the lounge would shortly

be judging it for themselves.

Apart from the lllensan shuttle and the Tralthan vessel, the only traffic was

the Nidian atmosphere craft which took off and landed every few minutes. They

were not large aircraft, but they did not need to be to hold a thousand Nidians.

As the aircraft differed only in their registration markings, it seemed that the

same machine was endlessly taking off and landing.

Angry because there was nothing else in the room to engage his attention fully,

and because it occupied such a prominent Position in the center of the lounge

that all eyes were naturally drawn to it, MacEwan turned finally to look once

again at that frightful and familiar tableau.

Grawlya-Ki had already done so and was whining softly to itself.

It was a life-sized replica of the old Orligian war memorial, one of the

countless thousands of copies which occupied public places of honor or appeared

in miniature on the desks or in the homes of responsible and concerned beings on

every world-of the Federation. The original had stood within its protective

shield in the central Plaza of Orligia's capital city for more than two

centuries, during which a great many native and visiting entities of

sensitivity and intelligence had tried vainly to describe its effect upon them.

For that war memorial was no aesthetic marble poem in which godlike figures

gestured defiance or lay dying nobly with limbs arranged to the best advantage.

Instead it consisted of an Orligian and an Earthman, surrounded by the

shattered, remnants of a Control Room belonging to a type of ship now long

obsolete.

The Orligian was standing crouched forward, the fur of its chest and face matted

with blood. A few yards away lay the Earth-human, very obviously dying. The

front of his uniform was in shreds, revealing the ghastly injuries he had

sustained. Abdominal organs normally concealed by skin, layers of subcutaneous

tissue and muscle were clearly visible. Yet this man, who had no business being

alive much less being capable of movement, was struggling toward the Orligian.

Two combatants amid the wreckage of a warship trying to continue their battle

hand to-hand?

The dozens of plaques spaced around the base of the tableau described the

incident in all the written languages of the Federation .

They told of the epic, single-ship duel between the Orligian and the Earth-human

commanders. So evenly matched had they been that, their respective crew members

dead, their ships shot to pieces, armaments depleted and power gone, they had

crash-landed close together on a world unknown to both of them. The Orligian,

anxious to learn all it could regarding enemy ship systems, and driven by a more

personal curiosity about its opponent, had boarded the wrecked Earth ship. They

met.

For them the war was over, because the terribly wounded Earth-human did not know

when he was going to die and the Orligian did not know when, if ever, its

distress signal would

bring rescuers. The distant, impersonal hatred they had felt toward each other

was gone, dissipated by the six-hour period* of maximum effort that had been

their duel, and was replaced by feelings of mutual respect for the degree of

professional competence displayed. So they tried to communicate, and succeeded.

It had been a slow, difficult, and extraordinarily painful process for both of

them, but when they did talk they held nothing back. The Orligian knew that any

verbal insubordination it might utter would die with this Earth-human, who in

turn sensed the other's sympathy and was in too much pain to care about the

things he said about his own superiors. And while they talked the Earth-human

learned something of vital importance, an enemy's-eye view of the simple,

stupid, and jointly misunderstood incident which had been responsible for

starting the war in the first place.

It had been during the closing stages of this conversation that an Orligian ship

which chanced to be in the area had landed and, after assessing the situation,

used its Stopper on the Earth wreck.

Even now the operating principles of the Orligian primary space weapon were

unclear to MacEwan. The weapon was capable of enclosing a small ship, or vital

sections of a large one, within a field of stasis in which all motion stopped.

Neither the ships nor their crew were harmed physically, but if someone so much

as scratched the surface of one of those Stopped hulls or tried to slip a needle

into the skin of one of the Stopped personnel, the result was an explosion of

near-nuclear proportions.

But the Orligian stasis field projector had peaceful as well as military

applications.

With great difficulty the section of Control Room and the two Stopped bodies it

contained had been moved to Orligia, to occupy the central square of the

planetary capital as the most gruesomely effective war memorial ever known, for

236 years. During that time the shaky peace which the two frozen beings had

brought about between Orligia and Earth ripened into friendship, and medical

science progressed to the point where the terribly injured Earth-human could be

saved. Although its

injuries had not been fatal, Grawlya-Ki had insisted on being Stopped with its

friend so that it could see MacEwan cured for itself.

And then the two greatest heroes of the war, heroes because they had ended it,

were removed from stasis, rushed to a hospital, and cured. For the first time,

it was said, the truly great of history would receive the reward they deserved

from posterity—and that was the way it had happened, just over thirty years

ago.

Since then the two heroes, the only two entities in the whole Federation with

direct experience of war, had grown increasingly monomaniacal on the subject

until the honor and respect accorded them had gradually changed to reactions of

impatience and embarrassment.

"Sometimes, Ki," MacEwan saidt turning away from the frozen figures of their

former selves, "I wonder if we should give up and try to find peace of mind like

the Colonel said. Nobody listens to us anymore, yet all we are trying to tell

them is to relax, to take off their heavy, bureaucratic gauntlets when extending

the hand of friendship, and to speak and react honestly so that—"

"I am aware of the arguments," Grawlya-Ki broke in, "and the completely

unnecessary restatement of them, especially to one who shares your feelings in

this matter, is suggestive of approaching senility."

"Listen, you mangy, overgrown baboon!" MacEwan began furiously, but the Orligian

ignored him.

"And senility is a condition which cannot be successfully treated by the

Colonel's psychiatrists," it went on. "Neither, I submit, can they give

psychiatric assistance to minds which are otherwise sane. As for my localized

loss of fur, you are so lacking in male hormones that you can only grow it on

your head and—"

"And your females grow more fur than you do," MacEwan snapped back, then

stopped.

He had been conned again.

Since that first historic meeting in MacEwan's wrecked Control Room they had

grown to know each other very well. Grawlya-Ki had assessed the present

situation, decided that MacEwan was-feeling far too depressed for his own good,

and instituted

curative treatment in the form of a therapuetic argument combined with subtle

reassurance regarding their sanity. MacEwan smiled.

"This frank and honest exchange of views," he said quietly, "is distressing the

other travelers. They probably think the Earth—Orligian war is about to restart,

because they would never dream of saying such things to each other."

"But they do dream," Grawlya-ki said, its mind going off at one of its

peculiarly Orligian tangents. "All intelligent life-forms require periods of

unconsciousness during which they dream. Or have nightmares."

"The trouble is," MacEwan said, "they don't share our particular nightmare."

Grawlya-Ki was silent. Through the transparent outer wall of the lounge it was

watching the rapid approach of the ground transporter from the Illensan shuttle

The vehicle was^a great, multiwheeled silver bullet distinctively marked to show

that it was filled with chlorine, and tipped with a transparent control module

whose atmosphere was suited to its Nidian driver. MacEwan wondered why all of

the smaller intelligent life-forms, regardless of species, had a compulsion to

drive fast. Had he stumbled upon one of the great cosmic truths?

"Maybe we should try a different approach," the Orligian said, still watching

the transporter. "Instead of trying to frighten them with nightmares, we should

find them a pleasant and inspiring dream to—What is that idiot doing?"

The vehicle was still approaching at speed, making no attempt to slow or turn

so as to present its transfer lock to the lounge's exit port for breathers of

toxic atmospheres. All of the waiting travelers were watching it now, many of

them making noises which did not translate.

The driver is showing off, MacEwan thought. Reflected sunlight from the canopy

obscured the occupant. It was not until the transporter ran into the shadow of

the terminal building that MacEwan saw the figure of the driver slumped face

downward over its control console, but by then it was too late for anyone to do

anything.

Built as it was from tough, laminated plastic nearly a foot thick, the

transparent wall bulged inward but did not immediately shatter as the nose of

the vehicle struck. The control

module and its occupant were instantly flattened into a thin pancake of riven

metal, tangled wiring, and bloody Nidian fur. Then the transporter broke

through.

When the driver had collapsed and lost control, the automatic power cutoff and

emergency braking systems must have been triggered. But in spite of its locked

wheels the transporter skidded ponderously on, enlarging the original break in

the transparent wall and losing sections of its own external plating in the

process. It plowed through the neat rows of Tralthan, Melfan, Kelgian, and

Illensan furniture. The heavy, complex structures were ripped from their floor

mountings and hurled aside along with the beings unfortunate enough to still be

occupying them. Finally the transporter ground to a halt against one of the

building's roof support pillars, which bent alarmingly but did not break. The

shock brought down most of the lounge's ceiling panels and with them a choking,

blinding cloud of dust.

All around MacEwan extraterrestrials were coughing and floundering about and

making untranslatable noises indicative of pain and distress, Grawlya-Ki

included. He blinked dust out of his eyes and saw that the Orligian was

crouched, apparently uninjured, beside the transporter. Both of its enormous,

furry hands were covering its face and it looked as if it would shake itself

apart with the violence of its coughing. MacEwan kicked loose debris out of the

way and moved toward it. Then his eyes began to sting and, just in time, he

covered his mouth and nose to keep from inhaling the contaminated air.

Chlorine!

With his free hand he grasped the Orligian's battle harness and began dragging

it away from the damaged vehicle, wondering angrily why he was wasting his

time. If the internal pressure hull had been ruptured, the whole lounge would be

rendered uninhabitable to oxygen breathers within a few minutes—the Ilknsans'

higher-pressure chlorine atmosphere would see to that. Then he stumbled against

a low, sprawling, membraneous body which was hissing and twitching amid the

debris and realized that it was not only the damaged vehicle which was

responsible for the contamination.

The Illensan must have been hit by the transporter and flung against a Kelgian

relaxer frame, which had collapsed. One of

the support struts had snagged the chlorine breather's pressure* envelope,

ripping it open along the entire length of the body. The oxygen-rich atmosphere

was attacking the unprotected body, coating the skin with a powdery, sickly blue

organic corrosion which was thickest around the two breathing orifices. All body

movement ceased as MacEwan watched, but he could still hear a loud hissing

sound.

Still keeping his mouth and nostrils sealed with one hand, he used the other to

feel along the Illensan's body and pressure envelope. His eyes were stinging

even though they were now tightly shut.

The creature's skin felt hot, slippery, and fibrous, with patterns of raised

lines which made it seem that the whole body was covered by the leaves of some

coarse-textured plant, and there were times when MacEwan did not know whether he

was touching the skin or the ruptured pressure suit. The sound of the pulse in

his head was incredible, like a constant, thudding explosion, and the

constriction in his chest was fast reaching the stage where.he was ready to

inhale even chlorine to stop that fiery, choking pain in his lungs. But he

fought desperately not to breathe, pressing his hand so tightly against his face

that his nose began to bleed.

After what seemed like a couple of hours later, he felt the shape of a large

cylinder with a hose connection and strange-feeling bumps and projections at one

end—the Illensan's air tank. He pulled and twisted desperately at controls

designed for the spatulate digits of an Illensan, and suddenly the hiss of

escaping chlorine ceased.

He turned and staggered away, trying to get clear of the localized cloud of

toxic gas so he could breathe again. But he had gone only a few yards when he

tripped and fell into a piece of broken e-t furniture covered by a tangle of

plastic drapery which had been used to decorate the lounge. His free arm kept

him from injuring himself, but it was not enough to enable him to escape from

the tangle of tubing and plastic which had somehow wrapped itself around his

feet. He opened his eyes and shut them again hastily as the chlorine stung them.

With such a high concentration of gas he could not risk opening his mouth to

shout for help. The noise inside his head was unbelievable. He felt himself

slipping into a roaring, pounding blackness, and there was a tight band gripping

and squeezing his chest.

There was something gripping his chest. He felt it- lifting him, shaking him

free of the debris entangling his arm and legs, and holding him aloft while it

carried him for an unknown distance across the lounge. Suddenly he felt his feet

touch the floor and he opened his eyes and mouth.

The smell of chlorine was still strong but he could breathe and see. Grawlya-Ki

was standing a few feet away, looking concerned and pointing at the blood

bubbling from his nose, and one of the two paint-spraying extraterrestrials was

detaching one of its thick, iron-hard tentacles from around his chest. He was

too busy just breathing again to be able to say anything. "I apologize most

abjectly and sincerely," his rescuer boomed over the sounds being made by the

injured all around them, "if I have in any fashion hurt you, or subjected you to

mental trauma or embarrassment by making such a gross and perhaps intimate

physical contact with your body. I would not have dared touch you at all had not

your Orligian friend insisted that you were in grave danger and requested that I

lift you clear. But if I have given offense—"

"You have not given offense," MacEwan broke in. "On the contrary, you have saved

my life at great risk to your own. That chlorine is deadly stuff to all us

oxygen breathers. Thank you."

It was becoming difficult to speak without coughing because the cloud of gas

from the dead Illensan's suit was spreading, and Grawlya-Ki was already moving

away. MacEwan was about to follow when the creature spoke again.

"I am in no immediate danger." Its eyes glittered at him from behind their hard,

organic shields as it went on. "I am a Hudlar, Earthperson. My species does not

breathe, but absorbs sustenance directly from our atmosphere, which, near the

planetary surface, is analogous to a thick, high-pressure, semigas-eous soup.

Apart from requiring our body surface to be sprayed at frequent intervals with a

nutrient paint, we are not inconvenienced by any but the most corrosive of

atmospheres, and we can even work for lengthy periods in vacuum conditions on

orbital construction projects.

"I am glad to have been of assistance, Earthperson," the Hudlar ended, "but I am

not a hero."

"Nevertheless I am grateful," MacEwan shouted, then stopped moving away. He

waved his hand, indicating the lounge which resembled a battlefield rather than

a luxurious departure point for the stars, and started coughing. Finally he was

able to say, "Pardon me, please, if I am being presumptuous, but is it possible

for you to similarly assist the other beings who have been immobilized by their

injuries and are in danger of asphyxiation?"

The second Hudlar had joined them, but neither spoke. Grawlya-Ki was waving at

him and pointing toward the transparent wall of the Colonel's office where the

Monitor Corps officer was also gesticulating urgently.

"Ki, will you find out what he wants?" MacEwan called to the Orligian. To the

first Hudlar he went on, "You are understandably cautious in the matter of

physically handling members of another species, lest you inadvertently give

offense, and in normal circumstances this would be wholly admirable and the

behavior of a being of sensitivity and intelligence. But this is not a normal

situation, and it is my belief that any accidental physical intimacy committed

on the injured would be forgiven when the intention is purely to give

assistance. In these circumstances a great many beings could die who would

otherwise—"

"Some of them will die of boredom or old age," the second Hudlar said suddenly,

"if we continue to waste time with unnecessary politeness. Plainly we Hudlars

have a physical advantage here. What is it you wish us to do?"

"I apologize most abjectly for my lifemate's ill-considered and hasty remarks,

Earth-human," the first Hudlar said quickly. "And for any offense they may have

given."

"No need. None taken," MacEwan said, laughing in sheer relief until the chlorine

turned it into a cough. He considered prefacing his instructions with advance

apologies for any offense he might inadvertently give to the Hudlars, then

decided that that would be wasting more time. He took a deep, careful breath and

spoke.

"The chlorine level is still rising around that transporter. Would one of you

remove heavy debris from casualties in the

area affected and move them to the entrance to the boarding tunnel, where they

can be moved into the tunnel itself if the level continues to rise. The other

should concentrate on rescuing Illensans by lifting them into their transporter.

There is a lock antechamber just inside the entry port, and hopefully some of

the less seriously injured chlorine breathers will be able to get them through

the lock and give them first aid inside. The Orligian and myself will try to

move the casualties not immediately in danger from the chlorine, and open the

boarding tunnel entrance. Ki, what have you got there?"

The Orligian had returned with more than, a dozen small cylinders, with

breathing masks and straps attached, cradled in both arms. It said,

"Fire-fighting equipment. The Colonel directed me to the emergency locker. But

it's Nidian equipment. The masks won't fit very well, and with some of these

beings they won't fit at all. Maybe we can hold them in position and—"

"This aspect of the problem does not concern us," the first Hudlar broke in.

"Earthperson, what do we do with casualties whose injuries might be compounded

by the assistance of well-meaning rescuers ignorant of the physiology of the

being concerned?"

MacEwan was already tying a cylinder to his chest, passing the attachment over

one shoulder and under the opposite armpit because the Nidian straps were too

short to do otherwise. He said grimly, "We will have that problem, too."

"Then we will use our best judgment," the second Hudlar said, moving ponderously

toward the transporter, followed closely by its lifemate.

"That isn't the only problem," Grawlya-Ki said as it, too, attached a cylinder

to its harness. 'The collision cut our communications and the Colonel can't

tell the terminal authorities about the situation in here, nor does he know what

the emergency services are doing about it. He also says that the boarding

tunnel entrance won't open while there is atmospheric contamination in the

lounge—it is part of the safety system designed to contain such contamination so

that it won't spread along the boarding tunnel to the waiting ship or into the

main concourse. The system can be overridden at this end, but only by a special

key carried by the Nidian senior ground staff member on duty in the lounge. Have

you seen this being?"

"Yes," MacEwan said grimly. "It was standing at the exit port just before the

crash. I think it is somewhere underneath the transporter."

Grawlya-Ki whined quietly, then went on, "The Colonel is using his personal

radio to contact a docked Monitor Corps vessel to try to patch into the port

network that way, but so far without effect. The Nidian rescue teams are doing

all the talking and are not listening to outsiders. But if he gets through he

wants to know what to tell them. The number and condition of the casualties, the

degree of contamination, and optimum entry points for the rescue teams. He wants

to talk to you."

"I don't want to talk to him," MacEwan said. He did not know enough to be able

to make a useful situation report, and until he did their time could be used to

much better effect than worrying out loud to the Colonel. He pointed to an

object which looked like a gray, bloodstained sack which twitched and made

untranslatable sounds, and said, "That one first."

The injured Kelgian was difficult to move, MacEwan found, especially when there

was just one Orligian arm and two human ones to take the weight. Grawlya-Ki's

mask was such a bad fit that it had to hold it in position. The casualty was a

caterpillar-like being with more than twenty legs and an overall covering of

silvery fur now badly bloodstained. But the body, although no more massive than

that of a human, was completely flaccid. There seerned to be no skeleton, no

bony parts at all except possibly in the head section, but it felt as though

there were wide, concentric bands of muscle running the length of the body just

underneath the fur.

It rolled and flopped about so much that by the time he had raised it from the

floor, supporting its head and midsection between his outstretched arms and

chest—Grawlya-Ki had the toil gripped between its side and free arm—one of the

wounds began bleeding. Because MacEwan was concentrating on holding the

Kelgian's body immobile as they moved it toward the boarding tunnel entrance,

his mind was not on his feet; they became tangled in a piece of decorative

curtain, and he fell to his knees. Immediately the Kelgian's blood began to well

out at an alarming rate.

"We should do something about that," the Orligian said, its voice muffled by the

too-small mask. "Any ideas?"

The Service had taught MacEwan only the rudiments of first

aid because casualties in a space war tended to be explosive decompressions and

rarely if ever treatable, and what little he had learned applied to beings of

his own species. Serious bleeding was controlled by cutting off the supply of

blood to the wound with a tourniquet or local pressure. The Kelgian's

circulatory system seemed to be very close to its skin, possibly because those

great, circular bands of muscle required lots of blood. But the position of the

veins were hidden by the being's thick fur. He thought that a pad and tight

bandages were the only treatment possible. He did not have a pad and there was

no time to go looking for one, but there was a bandage of sorts still wrapped

loosely around his ankle.

He kicked the length of plastic curtain off his foot, then pulled about two

meters free of the pile of debris which had fallen with it. The stuff was tough

and he needed all his strength to make a transverse tear in it, but it was wide

enough to cover the wound with several inches to spare. With the Orligian's help

he held the plastic in position over the wound and passed the two ends around

the cylindrical body, knotting them very tightly together.

Probably the makeshift bandage was too tight, and where it passed around the

Kelgian's underside it was pressing two sets of the being's legs against the

underbelly in a direction they were not, perhaps, designed to bend, and he hated

to think of what the dust and dirt adhering to the plastic might be doing to

that open wound.

The same thought must have been going through the Orligian's head, because it

said, "Maybe we'll find another Kelgian who isn't too badly hurt and knows what

to do."

But it was a long time before they found another Kelgian— at least, it felt like

an hour even though the big and, strangely, still-functioning lounge clock,

whose face was divided into concentric rings marked off in the time units of the

major Federation worlds, insisted that it-was only ten minutes.

One of the Hudlars had lifted wreckage from two of the crablike Melfans, one of

whom was coherent, seemingly uninjured but unable to see because of the

chlorine or dust. Graw-lya-Ki spoke reassuringly to it and led it away by

grasping a thick, fleshy projection, purpose unknown, growing from its

head. The other Melfan made loud, untranslatable noises. Its carapace was

cracked in several places and of the three legs which should have supported it

on one side, two were limp and useless and one was missing altogether.

MacEwan bent down quickly and slipped his hands and lower arms under the edge of

the carapace between the two useless legs and lifted until the body was at its

normal walking height. Immediately the legs on the other side began moving

slowly. MacEwan sidled along at the same pace, supporting the injured side and

guiding the Melfan around intervening wreckage until he was able to leave it

beside its blinded colleague.

He could think of nothing more to do for it, so he rejoined the Hudlar

excavating among the heavier falls of debris.

They uncovered three more Melfans, injured but ambulatory, who were directed to

the boarding tunnel entrance, and a pair of the elephantine, six-legged

Tralthans who appeared to be uninjured but were badly affected by the gas which

was still leaking steadily from the transporter. MacEwan and Graw-lya-Ki each

held a Nidian breathing mask to one breathing orifice and yelled at them to

close the other. Then they tried desperately not to be trampled underfoot as

they guided the Tralthans to the casualty assembly point. Then they uncovered

two more of the Kelgian caterpillars, one of whom had obviously bled to death

from a deep tear in its flank. The other had five of its rearmost sets of legs

damaged, rendering it immobile, but it was conscious and able to cooperate by

holding its body rigid while they carried it back to the others.

When MacEwan asked the being if it could help the earlier Kelgian casualty he

had tried to bandage, it said that it had no medical training and could think of

nothing further to do.

There were more walking, wriggling, and crawling wounded released from the

wreckage to join the growing crowd of casualties at the tunnel entrance. Some

of them were talking but most were making loud, untranslatable noises which had

to be of pain. The sounds made by the casualties still trapped by fallen

wreckage were slight by comparison.

The Hudlars were working tirelessly and often invisibly in a cloud of

self-created dust, but now they seemed to be un-

covering only organic wreckage of which there was no hope of salvage. There was

another Kelgian who had bled spectacularly to death; two, or it may have been

three, Melfans with crushed and shattered carapaces and broken limbs, and a

Tral-than who had been smashed flat by a collapsing roof beam and was still

trying to move.

MacEwan was afraid to touch any of them in case they fell apart in his hands,

but he could not be absolutely sure that they were beyond help. He had no idea

of their ability to survive major injury, or whether specialized medical

intervention could save them if taken in time. He felt angry and useless and the

chlorine was beginning to penetrate his face mask.

"This being appears to be uninjured," the Hudlar beside them said. It had lifted

a heavy table from a Tralthan who was lying on its side, its six massive legs

twitching feebly and its domelike brain casing, multiple eye-trunk, and thick,

leathery hide free of any visible signs of damage. "Could it be that it is

troubled only by the toxic gas?"

"You're probably right," MacEwan said. He and Grawlya-Ki pressed Nidian masks

over the Tralthan's breathing orifices. Several minutes passed with no sign of

improvement in its condition. MacEwan's eyes were stinging even though he, like

the Orligian, was using one hand to press the mask tightly against his face.

Angrily, he said, "Have you any other ideas?"

The anger was directed at his own helplessness, and he felt like kicking himself

for taking it out on the Hudlar. He could not tell the two beings apart, only

that one tended to sound worried, long-winded, and overly polite, while its

lifemate was more forthright. This one, luckily, was the former.

"It is possible that its injuries are to the flank lying against the floor and

are presently invisible to us," the Hudlar said ponderously. "Or that the being,

which is a squat, heavy-gravity creature with certain physical similarities to

myself, is seriously inconvenienced by being laid on its side. While we Hudlars

can work comfortably in weightless conditions, gravity if present must act

downward or within a very short time serious and disabling organ displacement

occurs. There is also the fact that all Tralthan ships use an artificial gravity

system with multiple failsafe backup, which is just one of the reasons for the

dependability and popularity of Tralthan-built ships. This suggests

that a lateral gravity pull must be avoided by them at all costs, and that this

particular being is—"

"Stop talking about it," the second Hudlar said, joining them, "and lift the

thing."

The Hudlar extended its forward pair of tentacles and, bracing itself with the

other four in front of the Tralthan's weakly moving feet, slid them over the

creature's back and insinuated them between the floor and its other flank.

MacEwan watched as the tentacles tightened, took the strain, and began to

quiver. But the body did not move, and the other Hudlar positioned itself to

assist.

MacEwan was surprised, and worried. He had seen those tentacles, which served

both as ambulatory and manipulatory appendages, lifting beams, major structural

members, and large masses of wreckage seemingly without effort. They were

beautifully evolved limbs, immensely strong and with thick, hardened pads

forming a knuckle on which the being walked while the remainder of the

tentacle—the thinner, more flexible half tipped with a cluster of specialized

digits—was carried curled inward against its underside. The Tralthan they were

trying to move was roughly the mass of an Earthly baby elephant, and the

combined efforts of both Hudlars were shifting it only slightly.

"Wait," MacEwan said urgently. "Both of you have lifted much heavier weights. I

think the Tralthan is caught, perhaps impaled on a structural projection, and

you cannot move it because—"

"We cannot move it," the polite Hudlar said, "because we have been expending

large amounts of energy after insufficient sustenance. Absorption of our last

meal, which was overdue in any case, was halted by the accident after the

process was scarcely begun. We are as weak as infants, as are you and your

Orligian friend. But if you would both go to the other side of the being and

push, your strength, puny as it is, might make a difference."

Perhaps it wasn't the polite one, MacEwan thought as he and Grawlya-Ki did as

suggested. He wanted to apologize to we Hudlars for assuming that they were

simply organic pieces of heavy rescue machinery whose capabilities he had taken

for . But he and Grawlya-Ki had their shoulders under the

side of the Tralthan's cranial dome, their puny efforts were making a

difference, and, unlike Hudlars, MacEwan needed breath with which to speak.

The Tralthan came upright, rocked unsteadily on its six, widely spaced feet,

then was guided toward the other casualties by the Orligian. Sweat as well as

chlorine was in MacEwan's eyes so he did not know which Hudlar spoke, but

presumably it had been the one engaged in lifting injured Illensans into the

damaged transporter.

"I am having difficulty with a chlorine breather, Earthper-son," it said. "The

being is abusive and will not allow me to touch it. The circumstances call for a

very close decision, one I am unwilling to make. Will you speak to it?"

The area around the transporter had been cleared of casualties with the sole

exception of this Illensan, who refused to be moved. The reason it gave MacEwan

was that while its injuries were not serious, its pressure envelope had suffered

two small ruptures. One of these it had sealed, after a fashion, by grasping the

fabric of its envelope around the tear in both manipulators and holding it

tightly closed, while the other one it had sealed by lying on it. These

arrangements had forced it to increase the internal pressure of the envelope

temporarily, so that it no longer had any clear idea of the duration of its

chlorine tank and asphyxiation might be imminent. But it did not want to be

moved to the relative safety of the transporter, which was also leaking, because

that would allow the lethal atmosphere of the lounge to enter its envelope.

"I would prefer to die of chlorine starvation," it ended forcefully, "than have

my breathing passages and lungs instantly corroded by your oxygen. Stay away

from me."

MacEwan swore under his breath but did not approach the Illensan. Where were the

emergency rescue teams? Surely they should have been there by now. The clock

showed that it had been just over twenty-five Earth minutes since the accident.

He could see that the sightseers had been cleared from the lounge's inner wall,

to be replaced by a Nidian television crew and some uninformed ground staff who

did not appear to be doing anything at all. Outside there were heavy vehicles

drawn up and Nidians with backpacks and helmets scurrying around,

but his constantly watering eyes and the ever-present plastic hangings kept him

from seeing details.

MacEwan pointed suddenly at the hangings and said to the Hudlars, "Will you tear

down a large piece of that plastic material, please, and drape it over the

Illensan. Pat it down flat around the being's suit and smooth the folds out

toward the edges so as to exclude our air as much as possible. I'll be back in a

minute."

He hurried around the transporter to the first Illensan casualty, whose body

had turned a livid, powdery blue and was beginning to disintegrate, and tried to

look only at the fastenings of the chlorine tank. It took him several minutes to

get the tank free of the body harness, and several times his bare hands touched

the dead Illensan's flesh, which crumbled like rotting wood. He knew that oxygen

was vicious stuff where chlorine breathers were concerned, but now he could

really sympathize with the other Illensan's panic at the thought of being moved

in a leaking suit.

When he relumed it was Grawlya-Ki who was smoothing out the plastic around the

Illensan while the two Hudlars were standing clear. One of them said

apologetically, "Our movements have become somewhat uncoordinated and the

chlorine breather was worried lest we accidentally fall on it. If there is

something else we can do—"

"Nothing," MacEwan said firmly.

He turned on the tap of the chlorine tank and slipped it quickly under the

plastic sheet and pushed it close to the Illensan. The extra seepage of the gas

would make little difference, he thought, because the whole area around the

transporter was fast becoming uninhabitable for oxygen breathers. He pressed the

tiny mask hard against his face and took a long, careful breath through his

nose, and used it to speak to the Hudlars.

"I have been thoughtless and seemingly ungrateful for the fine work you have

been doing here," he said. "There is nothing more that you can do. Please go at

once and spray yourselves with the necessary nutrient. You have acted most

unselfishly, and I am, as are we all, most grateful to you."

The two Hudlars did not move. MacEwan began placing

pieces of debris around the edges of the plastic and the Orligian, who was quick

on the uptake, began doing the same. Soon the edges were held tightly against

the floor, the gas escaping from the tank was beginning to inflate the plastic,

and they had the Illensan in a crude chlorine tent. Still the Hudlars had not

moved.

"The Colonel is waving at you again," Grawlya-Ki said. "I would say with

impatience."

"We cannot use our sprayers here, Earthperson," one of the Hudlars said before

MacEwan could reply. "The absorption mechanism in our tegument would ingest the

toxic gas with our food, and in our species trace amounts of chlorine are

lethal. The food sprayers can only be used in a beneficent atmosphere or in

airless conditions."

"Bloody hell!" MacEwan said. When he thought of the way the Hudlars had worked

to free the casualties, knowing that their time and available energy was

severely limited and letting him assume that they had no problems, he should

have had more to say—but that was all that came out. He looked helplessly at

Ki, but the Orligian's face was covered by its furry hand holding the

ridiculously small mask.

"With us," the other Hudlar added, "starvation is a rapid process, somewhat akin

to asphyxiation in a gas breather. I estimate that we should lose consciousness

and die in just under eight of our small time divisions."

MacEwan's eyes went to the concentric circles of the lounge clock. The Hudlar

was talking about the equivalent of about twenty Earth minutes. Somehow they had

to get that boarding tunnel open.

"Go to the tunnel entrance," he said, "and try to conserve your strength. Wait

beside the others until—" He broke off awkwardly, then said to the Orligian,

"Ki, you'd better get over there as well. There's enough chlorine in the air

here to bleach your fur. Keep passing the masks around and—'"

"The Colonel," Grawlya-Ki reminded him as it turned to follow the Hudlars.

MacEwan waved acknowledgment, but before he could leave the Illensan began

speaking, its voice muffled by the fabric of the makeshift chlorine tent.

"That was an ingenious idea, Earthperson," it said slowly-"There is now a

beneficent atmosphere surrounding my

sure envelope, which will enable me to repair the torn fabric and survive until

Illensan assistance arrives. Thank you."

"You're welcome," MacEwan said, and began picking his way over the debris toward

the gesticulating figure of the Colonel. He was still several meters from the

wall when the officer pointed to his ear, then rapped with a knuckle on the

interior surface. MacEwan obediently unfastened his mask on one side and pressed

an ear against the transparent wall. The other's voice was low and indistinct,

even though the color of the Colonel's face showed that he was shouting.

"Listen, MacEwan, and don't try to answer yet," the Colonel shouted.

"We'll have you out of there in fifteen, twenty minutes at most, and you'll have

fresh air in ten. Medical help for all of the casualty species is on the way.

Everybody on the planet knows about the accident because the TV channels were

covering your deportation as a news item, and now this is big news indeed.

Their contact mikes and translators are bringing us every word said in there,

and the authorities are insisting that every effort be made to speed up the

rescue___"

Across the lounge Grawlya-Ki was waving a mask and air tank above his head. When

the Orligian was sure that MacEwan had seen it; he threw it away. None of the

other casualties were wearing masks so obviously they were useless, their air

tanks empty. He wondered how long his own tank would last.

The equipment had been designed for the diminuitive Nidians, whose lungs were

less than half the capacity of an Earth-Arson's. A lot of air had been wasted

during the continual Passing of masks between the casualties, and the furry face

of the Orligian would have allowed air to leak past the edges of its mask,

especially if Grawlya-Ki had increased the pressure to exclude the chlorine.

The Colonel had seen the Orligian's action and must have leapt to the same

conclusion.

' 'Tell them to hang on for just a few more minutes," he went on. "We can't cut

a way in from the main concourse because there are too many unprotected people

out there. That plastic wall is tough and needs special, high-temperature

equipment to cut it,. Anyway, -accidents,with the plastic tproduce large

quantities of highly toxic fumes, bad enough to make your chlorine problem seem

like a bad smell.

"So they're going in through the hole made by the transporter. There is only a

few inches clearance around the vehicle's hull now, but they're going to pull

the transporter out backward and you will be brought out through the hole it

made and into the fresh air, where the medics will be standing by—"

MacEwan began banging with his fist and a foot against the plastic to attract

the Colonel's attention, and breathing as deeply as he could through the mask.

He had some shouting to do himself.

'No.'" MacEwan said loudly, putting his mouth as close to the wall as the mask

would allow: "All but one of the injured Illensans are inside the transporter.

The structure was damaged in the collision and is leaking chlorine from every

seam. If you drag it out like that it is likely to fall apart and the air will

get to the casualties. I've seen what exposure to oxygen did to one of them."

"But if we don't go in there fast the oxygen breathers will die," the Colonel

replied. His face was no longer red now, but a sickly white.

MacEwan could almost see the way the officer's mind was working. If the

transporter with the chlorine-breathing casualties on board was hauled out and

it broke up, the Illensan authorities would not be amused. But neither would the

governments of Traltha, Kelgia, Melf, Orligia, and Earth if they did not act

quickly to save those people.

This was how an interstellar war could start.

With the media covering every incident as it occurred, with their contact mikes

picking up every translated word as it was spoken, and with fellow beings of the

casualties' species on Nidia watching, judging, feeling, and reacting, there was

no possibility of this incident being hushed up or diplomatically smoothed over.

The decision to be taken was a simple one: Certain death for seven or eight

chlorine-breathing Illensans to possibly save triple that number of Tralthans,

Hudlars, Kel-gians, Melfans, many of whom were dying anyway. Or death by

chlorine poisoning for the oxygen breathers.

MacEwan could not make the decision and neither, he saw, could the pale,

sweating, and silent Colonel trapped inside his

office. He banged for attention again and shouted, "Open the boarding tunnel!

Blast it open from the other side if you have to. Rig fans or pump in fresh air

from the ship to raise the tunnel pressure and keep back this chlorine. Then

send the emergency team to this end of the tunnel and open it from the inside.

Surely the wiring of the safety system can be short-circuited and—"

While he was talking, MacEwan was thinking about the distance between the tunnel

entrance and the take-off apron. It would take a long time to traverse the

tunnel if the fast walkway was not operating. And explosives might not be

quickly available in an air and space terminal. Maybe the Monitor Corps vessel

in dock could provide some, given time, but the time they had was to be measured

in minutes.

"The safety system is triggered from your end," the Colonel broke in. "The other

end of the tunnel is too close to the ship for explosives to be used. The vessel

would have to take off first and that would waste more time. The system can only

be overriden at your end by a special key, carried by the Nidian on lounge duty,

which unlocks the cover of the tunnel controls. The cover is transparent and

unbreakable. You see, contamination can be a killer in a big complex like this

one, especially when you consider that chlorine is mild compared with the stuff

some of the offworlders breathe—"

MacEwan thumped the wall again and said, "The Nidian with the key is buried

under the transporter, which can't be moved. And who says the cover is

unbreakable? There is bar metal, furniture supports, among the wreckage. If I

can't unlock the cover then I'll try levering or bashing it off. Find out what

I'm supposed to do when it is off."

But the Colonel was ahead of him. He had already asked the Nidians that same

question. In order, to make accidental operation impossible for non-Nidian

digits, the tunnel controls *ere in the form of six recessed buttons, which had

to be Depressed in a certain sequence. MacEwan would have to use -.stylus or

something similar to operate them because his Earthly fingers were too thick. He

listened carefully, signaled that he understood, then returned to the

casualties.

Grawlya-Ki had heard MacEwan's half of the shouted con-versation and had found

two lengths of metal. It was using one

of them to attack the console when he arrived. The metal was a strong-enough

alloy, but lacked the necessary weight and inertia. The metal bounced or skidded

off the cover every time they swung at it, without leaving a mark.

Damn the Nidians and their superhard plastics! MacEwan raged. He tried to lever

off the cover, but the join was almost invisible and the fastenings were flush

with the console pedestal. He swore and tried again.

The Orligian did not speak because it was coughing all the time now, and the

chlorine was affecting its eyes so badly that more often than not its blows

missed the console altogether. MacEwan was beginning to feel an impairment in

his own air supply, as if the tank were nearly empty and he was sucking at air

which was not there, instead drawing in the contaminated air of the lounge

through the edges of his mask.

Around them the casualties were still moving, but jerkily, as if they were

struggling in the final stages of asphyxiation. The movements were not helping

their injuries. Only the two Hudlars were motionless; their six tentacular limbs

supported them just a few inches above the floor. MacEwan raised the metal bar

high, stood on his toes, and brought it down-as hard as he could.

He grunted in pain as the shock jarred his arms from wrist to shoulders and the

bar slipped out of his hands. He swore again and looked around helplessly.

The Colonel was watching him through his glass-walled office. Through the inner

wall of the lounge MacEwan could see the cameras of the Nidian TV networks

watching him, listening and recording every word and cough and groan of those

inside. Beyond the outer wall, now that the dust had settled and most of the

intervening draperies had been pulled down, he could see the crews of the heavy

Nidian towing vehicles watching him. He had only to signal to the Colonel and

the emergency team would drag out the damaged transporter and medics would be

attending the casualties within a few minutes.

But how would the fllensans as a species react to that? They were highly

advanced technologically, occupying scores of colony worlds which they had had

to adapt to their environmental needs, and, despite being the most widely

traveled race in the

Federation, they were a virtually unknown quantity because their worlds were so

dangerous and unpleasant that few , indeed, were the visitors they received.

Would they hold Nidia responsible for the accident and the deaths of their

people? Or the worlds of the other warm-blooded, oxygen breathers whose people

had survived at the expense of the Illensans?

And if everybody dithered and remained undecided until all but the Illensans had

died, how would the world governments of Kelgia, Traltha, Melf, Orligia, and

Earth react?

They would probably not gang up on Illensa, nor would the war start over this

incident — not officially. But the seeds would have been planted no matter which

races were saved or sacrificed, or even if all of them died. It would start,

not because anyone wanted it, but because of a highly improbable accident with a

number of contributing factors most of which could have been avoided.

Even the sudden collapse of the Nidian driver at the controls of the transporter

could have been avoided by keeping closer medical checks .on the ground staff.

It had been sheer bad luck that the incident had happened when it did, and then

the too rigidly designed safety system had done the rest. But most of the deaths

would occur, MacEwan thought angrily, because of ignorance and fear — everyone

was too frightened and over-polite to have asked the offworlders for a few basic

lessons in first aid.

Beside him Grawlya-Ki was on its knees, coughing but still gripping its metal

bar. At any moment the Colonel would make his decision because MacEwan, the

Earth-being on the spot, was too much of a moral coward to make it. But whether

the Colonel decided to save the Illensans or the others he would _-* wrong.

MacEwan moved closer to one of the motionless Hudlars and waved a hand in front

of one of its large, widely spaced eyes.

For several interminable seconds there was no response. He was beginning to

wonder if the being was already dead when

said, "What is it, Earthperson?"

MacEwan took a deep breath through his nose and found at his air had run out.

For a moment he panicked and almost through his mouth, but stopped himself in

time. Using the air remaining in his nearly empty lungs, he pointed to the

console cover and said, "Are you able to break open the cover? Just the cover. I

can... operate... controls..."

Desperately he fought the urge to suck the chlorine-laden air into his deflated

lungs as the Hudlar slowly extended a tentacle and curled it around the cover.

It slipped off the smooth, hemispheric surface. The Hudlar tried again without

success, then it withdrew the tentacle slightly and jabbed at it with its sharp,

steel-hard digits. A small scratch appeared on the cover but the material showed

no sign of cracking. The tentacle withdrew, farther this time.

There was a roaring in MacEwan's head which was the loudest sound he had ever

heard, and big, throbbing patches of darkness obscured the Hudlar as it made

another attempt to break through the cover. MacEwan shrugged off his tunic,

bunched it tightly in his fist and pressed it against his mouth as a makeshift

filter. With his other hand he pressed the Nidian mask against his face to

protect his eyes, at least, from the chlorine. He inhaled carefully and tried

not to cough as the Hudlar swung its tentacle back for another try.

This time it struck like a battering ram and the cover, console, and even the

floor supports exploded into their component parts.

"I am sorry for my clumsiness," the Hudlar said slowly. "Food deprivation

impairs my judgment—"

It broke off as a loud, double chime sounded and the boarding tunnel doors slid

open, bathing them suddenly in a wash of cool, pure air. A recorded voice was

saying, "Will passengers please mount the moving way of the boarding tunnel and

have their travel documents ready for inspection."

The two Hudlars found enough strength between them to lift the heavier

casualties onto the moving way before they got on themselves, after which they

began spraying each other with nutrient and making untranslatable noises. By

then members of the Nidian emergency services, followed by a couple of Illensan

and other offworlder medics, were hurrying in the opposite direction along the

static borders of the moving way.

The incident had placed a six-hour hold on the Tralthan ship's departure, time

for the less severe casualties to be treated and taken on board while the others

were moved to the various

offworlder accommodations in the city where they could be under the close

supervision of medics of their own species. The transporter, empty of its

Illensan casualties, had been withdrawn and a cold wind from the field blew

through the gap in the transparent wall.

Grawlya-Ki, MacEwan, and the Colonel were standing beside the entrance to the

boarding tunnel. The multichronometer above them indicated that take-off was

less than half an Earth hour away.

The Colonel touched a piece of the demolished console with his boot and did not

look at them when he spoke. "You were lucky. We were all lucky. I hate to think

of the repercussions if you had failed to get all the casualties away. But you,

both of you and the Hudlars, were instrumental in saving all but five of them,

and they would have died in any case."

He gave an embarrassed laugh and looked up. "The offworld medics say some of

your ideas on first aid are horrendous in their simplicity, but you didn't kill

anybody and actually saved lives. You did it in full view of the media, with all

of Nidia and its offworld visitors looking on, and you made your point about

closer and more honest contact between species in a way that we are not going to

forget. You are heroes again and I think—no, damn it, I'm sure—that you have

only to ask and the Nidians will rescind their deportation order."

"We're going home," MacEwan said firmly. "To Orligia and Earth."

The Colonel looked even more embarrassed. He said, "I can understand your

feelings about this sudden change in attitude. But now the authorities are

grateful. Everybody, Nidians and offworlders alike, wants to interview you, and

you can be sure that your ideas will be listened to. But if you require some

form of public apology, I could arrange something."

MacEwan shook his head. "We are leaving because we have |he answer to the

problem. We have found the area of common interest to which ail offworlders will

subscribe, a project in which they will gladly cooperate. The answer was obvious

all along but until today we were too stupid to see it.

"Implementing the solution," he went on, smiling, "is not a job for two tired

old veterans who are beginning to bore People. It will take an organization like

your Monitor Corps

to coordinate the project, the technical resources of half a dozen planets, more

money than I can conceive of, and a very, very

long time-----"

As he continued, MacEwan was aware of excited movement among the members of the

video team who had stayed behind hoping for an interview with Grawlya-Ki and

himself. They would not get an interview but they were recording his final words

to the Colonel. And when the Orligian and the Earth-person turned to leave they

also got a not very interesting picture of the ranking Monitor Corps officer on

Nidia standing very still, with one arm bent double so that the hand was held

stiffly against the head. There was an odd brightness in the Earth-person's eyes

and an expression on the pink, furless face which they were, naturally, unable

to read.

It took a very long time, much longer than the most generous estimates. The

original and relatively modest plans had to be continually extended because

scarcely a decade passed without several newly discovered intelligent species

joining the Federation and these, too, had to be accommodated. So gigantic and

complex was the structure required that in the end hundreds of worlds had each

fabricated sections of it and transported them like pieces of a vast,

three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle to the assembly area.

. The tremendous structure which had finally taken shape in Galactic Sector

Twelve was a hospital, a hospital to end all hospitals. In its 384 levels were

reproduced the environments of all the different life-forms who comprised the

Galactic Federation—a biological spectrum ranging from the frigid, methane

life-forms through the more normal oxygen and chlorine-breathing types, up to

the exotic beings who existed by the direct conversion of hard radiation.

Sector Twelve General Hospital represented a twofold miracle of engineering and

psychology. Its supply, maintenance, and administration were handled by the

Monitor Corps, but the traditional friction between the military and civilian

members of the staff did not occur. Neither were there any serious

disagreements among its ten thousand-odd medical personnel, who were composed

of over sixty differing life-forms with the same number of mannerisms, body

odors, and life views.

Perhaps their only common denominator, regardless of size, shape, and number of

legs, was their need to cure the sick.

And in the vast dining hall used by the hospital's warmblooded,

oxygen-breathing life-forms there was a small dedication plaque just inside the

main entrance. The Kelgian, Ian, Melfan, Nidian, Etlan, Orligian, Dwerlan,

Tralthan, and Earth-human medical and maintenance staff rarely had time to look

at the names inscribed on it, because they were all too busy talking shop,

exchanging other-species gossip, and eating at tables with utensils all too

often designed for the needs of an entirely different life-form—it was a very

busy place, after all, and one grabbed a seat where one could. But then that was

the way Grawlya-Ki and MacEwan had wanted it.

SURVIVOR

FOR more than an hour Senior Physician Conway had been dividing his attention

between the interstellar emptiness outside the direct vision port and the

long-range sensor display, which showed surrounding space to be anything but

empty, and feeling more depressed with every minute that Passed. Around him the

officers on Rhabwar's Control Deck were radiating impatience—but inaudibly,

because they all knew that when their ship was at the scene of a disaster it was

the senior medical officer on board who had the rank.

"Only one survivor," he said dully.

From the Captain's position, Fletcher said, "We've been fortunate on previous

missions, Doctor. More often than not this is all an ambulance ship finds. Just

think of what must have happened here."

Conway did not reply because he had been thinking of little ekse for the past

hour.

An interstellar vessel of unknown origin and fully three times the mass of their

ambulance ship had suffered a catastrophic malfunction which had reduced it to

finely divided and widely scattered wreckage. Analysis of the temperature and

relative motions showed the debris to be much too cool to have been at the

center of a nuclear explosion less than seven hours earlier, when the distress

beacon had been automatically released. It was obvious, therefore, that the ship

had lost one of its hypergenerators and it had not been of a sufficiently

advanced design for the occupants, with one exception, to have any chance of

surviving the accident.

On Federation ships, Conway knew, if one of the matched set of hyperdrive

generators failed suddenly, the others were designed to cut out simultaneously.

The vessel concerned emerged safely into normal space somewhere between the

stars, to sit there helplessly, unable to make it home on impulse drive, until

it either repaired its sick generator or help arrived. But there were times when

the safety cutoffs had failed or been late in functioning, which meant that

while a part of the ship had continued for a split second at hyperspeed the

remainder was braked instantaneously to sublight velocity. The effect on the

early hyperships had been, to say the least, catastrophic.

"The survivor's species must be relatively new to hyper-travel," Conway said,

"or they would be using the modular design philosophy which we, from long

experience, know to be the only structural form which enables a proportion of a

ship's crew to survive when a sudden hypergenerator imbalance tears the vessel

apart around them. I can't understand why the section containing the survivor

wasn't fragmented like the rest."

The Captain was visibly controlling his impatience as he replied, "You were too

busy getting the survivor out before the compartment lost any more air and

decompression was added to its other problems, Doctor, to have time for

structural observations. The compartment was a separate unit, purpose unknown,

which was mounted outboard of the main hull and joined by a short access tube

and airlock, and it simply broke away in one piece. That beastie was very

lucky." He gestured toward the long-range sensor displays. "But now we know that

the remaining pieces of wreckage are too small to contain survivors and frankly,

Doctor, we are wasting time here."

"I agree," Conway said absently.

"Right," Fletcher said briskly. "Power Room, prepare to Jump in five—"

"Hold, Captain," Conway broke in quietly. "1 hadn't fin- ^

ished. I want a scoutship out here, more than one if they can be spared, to

search the wreckage for personal effects, photographs, solid and pictorial an,

anything which will assist in reconstructing the survivor's environment and

culture. And request Federation Archives for any information on an intelligent

life-form of physiological classification EGCL. Since this is a new species to

us, the cultural contact people will want this information as soon as possible,

and if our survivor continues to survive, the hospital will need it the day

before yesterday.

"Tag the signals with Sector General medical first-contact priority coding," he

went on, "then head for home. I'll be on the Casualty Deck."

Rhabwar's communications officer, Haslam, was already preparing for the

transmission when Conway stepped into the gravity-free central well and began

pulling himself toward the Casualty Deck amidships. He broke his journey briefly

to visit his cabin and get out of the heavy-duty spacesuit he had been wearing

since the rescue. He felt as though every bone and muscle in his body was

aching. The rescue and transfer of the survivor to Rhabwar had required intense

muscular activity, followed by a three-hour emergency op, and another hour

sitting still in Control. No wonder he felt stiff.

Try to think about something else, Conway told himself firmly. He exercised

briefly to ease his cramped muscles but the dull, unlocalized aching persisted.

Angrily he wondered if he was becoming a hypochondriac.

"Subspace radio transmission in five seconds," the muted voice of Lieutenant

Haslam said from the cabin speaker. "Ex-Pect the usual fluctuations in the

lighting and artificial gravity systems."

As the cabin lights flickered and the deck seemed to twitch under his feet,

Conway was forced to think of something else— specifically, the problems

encountered in transmitting intelli-Sence over interstellar distances compared

with the relative simplicity of sending a distress signal.

Just as there was only one known method of traveling faster wan light, there was

only one way of calling for help when an accident left a ship stranded between

the stars. Tight-beam subspace radio could rarely be used in emergency

conditions

since it was subject to interference from intervening stellar material and

required inordinate amounts of a vessel's power— power which a distressed ship

was unlikely to have available. But a distress beacon did not have to carry

intelligence.' It was simply a nuclear-powered device which broadcast its

location, a subspace scream for help which ran up and down the usuable

frequencies until it died, in a matter of a few hours. And on I this occasion it

had died amid a cloud of wreckage containing one survivor who was very lucky

indeed to be alive.

But considering the extent of the being's injuries, Conway thought, it could not

really be described as lucky. Mentally shaking himself loose of these

uncharacteristically morbid feelings, he went down to the Casualty Deck to

check on« the patient's condition.

Typed as physiological classification EGCL, the survivor was a warm-blooded,

oxygen-breathing life-form of approximately twice the body weight of an adult

Earth-human. Visually it resembled an outsize snail with a high, conical shell

which was pierced around the tip where its four extensible eyes were I located.

Equally spaced around the base of the shell were eight triangular slots from

which projected the manipulatory appendages. The carapace rested on a thick,

circular pad of muscle I which was the locomotor system. Around the

circumference of the pad were a number of fleshy projections, hollows and slits

associated with its systems of ingestion, respiration, elimination,

reproduction, and nonvisual sensors. Its gravity and atmospheric pressure

requirements had been estimated but, because of its severely weakened condition,

the artificial gravity I setting had been reduced to assist the heart and the

pressure increased so that decompression effects would not aggravate the

bleeding.

As Conway stood looking down at the terribly injured EGCL, Pathologist Murchison

and Charge Nurse Naydrad joined him at the pressure litter. It was the same

litter which had been I used to move the casualty from the wreck, and, because

the patient should not be subjected to unnecessary movement,- it would be used

again to transfer the EGCL into the hospital. The only difference was that for

the second trip the casualty had been tidied up.

In spite of his considerable experience with spacewreck casualties of all

shapes, sizes, and physiological classifications, Conway winced at the memory of

what they had found. The compartment containing the EGCL had been spinning

rapidly when they discovered it, and the being had been rolling about inside and

demolishing furniture and equipment with its massive body for many hours before

it had lodged itself in a corner under some self-created debris.

In the process its carapace had sustained three fractures, one of which was so

deeply depressed that the brain had been involved. One of the eyes was missing,

and two of the thin, tentacular manipulators had been traumatically severed by

sharp-edged obstructions—these limbs had been retrieved and preserved for

possible rejoining—and there were numerous punctured and incised wounds to the

base pad.

Apart from carrying out the emergency surgery to relieve some of the cranial

pressure, controlling the major areas of bleeding with clamps and temporary

sutures, and assisting the patient's breathing by applying positive pressure

ventilation to the remaining undamaged lung, there had been very little that

they could do. Certainly there was no way of treating the brain damage aboard

Rhabwar, and their efforts at charting the extent of that damage had resulted in

conflicting indications from the biosensors and Doctor Prilicla's empathic

faculty. The sensor indications were that cerebral activity had virtually

ceased, while the little empath insisted, insofar as the timid, shy,

self-effacing Prilicla could insist, otherwise.

"No physical movement and no change in the clinical picture since you left,"

Murchison said quietly, anticipating his question. She added, "I'm not at all

happy about this."

"And I am far from happy, Doctor," the Charge Nurse joined in its fur twitching

and rippling as if it was standing in a strong wind. "In my opinion the being is

dead and we are simply insuring that Thornnastor receives a fresher than usual

specimen to take apart.

"Doctor Prilicla," the Kelgian went on, "is often guilty of saying things which

are not completely accurate just so long as they make the people around it

happy, and the predominant radiation it detected from the patient was of pain.

The feeling was so intense, you will remember, that Prilicla asked to be excused

as soon as the operation was completed. In my opinion. Doctor, this patient is

no longer capable of cerebration but it is, judging by Prilicla's response,

suffering intense pain. Surely your course is clear?"

"Naydrad!" Conway began angrily, then stopped. Murchi-son and the Charge Nurse

had expressed exactly the same sentiments. The difference was that the Kelgian,

in common with the rest of its species, was incapable of using tact.

Conway stared for a moment at the two-meters-long, caterpillar like life-form

whose coat of silvery fur was in constant, rippling motion. This motion was

completely involuntary among Kelgians, triggered by their reactions to external

and internal stimuli, and the emotionally expressive fur complemented the vocal

apparatus which lacked flexibility of tone. But the patterns of movement in the

fur made it plain to any Kelgian what another felt about the subject under

discussion, so that they always said exactly what they meant. The concepts of

diplomacy, tact, and lying were therefore completely alien to them. Conway

sighed.

He tried to conceal his own doubts about the case by saying firmly, "Thomnastor

much prefers putting together a live spec-iment than taking apart a dead one.

As. well, on a number of occasions Prilicla's empathy has proved more

trustworthy than medical instrumentation, so we cannot be absolutely sure that

this case is hopeless. In any event, until we reach the hospital its treatment

is my responsibility.

"Let's not become too emotionally involved with this patient," he added. "It is

unprofessional and not like either of you."

Naydrad, its fur twitching angrily, made a sound which did not register on

Conway's translator, and Murchison said, "You're right, of course. We've seen

much worse cases and I don't know why I feel so badly about this one. Maybe I'm

just growing old."

"The onset of senility could be one explanation for such uncharacteristic

behavior," the Kelgian said, "although this is not so in my case."

Murchison's face reddened. "The Charge Nurse is allowed

to say things like that but you, Doctor, had better not agree with it," she said

crossly.

Conway laughed suddenly. "Relax. I wouldn't dream of agreeing with such a

blatantly obvious misstatement," he said. "And now, if you have everything you

think Thorny will need on our friend here, both of you get some rest. Emergence

is in six hours. If you can't sleep, please try not to worry too much about the

casualty or it will bother Prilicla."

Murchison nodded and followed Naydrad from the Casualty Deck. Conway, still

feeling more like a not very well patient than a medic in charge, set the

audible warning which would signal any change in the EGCL's condition, lay down

on a nearby litter, and closed his eyes.

Neither the Earth-human DBDG or the Kelgian DBLF classifications were noted for

their ability to exercise full control over their mentation, and it was soon

obvious that Murchison and Naydrad had been worrying and, in the process,

producing some unpleasant emotional radiation. With his eyes still closed he

listened to the faint tapping and plopping sounds which moved along the ceiling

toward him and came to a halt overhead. There was a burst of low, musical

clicks and trills which came through his translator as "Excuse me, friend

Conway, were you sleeping?"

"You know I wasn't," Conway said, opening his eyes to see Prilicla clinging to

the ceiling above him, trembling uncontrollably as it was washed by his own and

the patient's emotional radiation.

Doctor Prilicla was of physiological classification GLNO— an insectile,

exoskeletal, six-legged life-form with two pairs of iridescent and not quite

atrophied wings and possessing a highly developed empathic faculty. Only on

Cinruss, with its dense atmosphere and one-eighth gravity, could a race of

insects have grown to such dimensions and in time developed intelligence and an

advanced civilization.

But in both the hospital and Rhabwar, Prilicla was in deadly danger for most of

its working day. It had to wear gravity nullifiers everywhere outside its own

special quarters because the gravity pull which the majority of its colleagues

considered normal would instantly have crushed it flat. When Prilicla held

a conversation with anyone it kept well out of reach of any thoughtless movement

of an arm or tentacle which would easily have caved in its eggshell body or

snapped off one of the incredibly fragile limbs.

Not that anyone would have wanted to hurt the little being— it was far too well

liked. The Cinrusskin's empathic faculty forced it to be considerate to everyone

in order to make the emotional radiation of the people around it as pleasant for

itself as possible—except when its professional duties exposed it to pain and

associated violent emotion in a patient or to the unintentionally unpleasant

feelings of its colleagues.

"You should be sleeping, Prilicla," Conway said with concern, "or are Murchison

and Naydrad emoting too loudly for you?"

"No, friend Conway," the empath replied timidly. "Their emotional radiation

troubles me no more than that of the other people on the ship. I came for a

consultation."

"Good!" Conway said. "You've had some useful thoughts on the treatment of our—"

"I wish to consult you about myself," Prilicla said, committing the—to it—gross

impoliteness of breaking in on another's conversation without prior apology.

For a moment its pipestem legs and body shook with the strength of Conway's

reaction, then it added, "Please, my friend, control your feelings."

Conway tried to be clinical about the little Cinrusskin who had been his friend,

colleague, and invaluable assistant on virtually every major case since his

promotion to Senior Physician. His sudden concern and unadmitted fear of the

possible loss of a close friend were not helping that friend and were, in fact,

causing it even greater distress. He tried hard to think of Prilicla as a

patient, only as a patient, and slowly the empath's trembling abated.

"What," Conway said in time-honored fashion, "seems to be the trouble?"

"I do not know," the Cinrusskin said. "I have no previous experience and there

are no recorded instances of the condition among my species. I am confused,

friend Conway, and frightened."

"Symptoms?" Conway asked.

"Empathic hypersensitivity," Prilicla replied. "The emotional radiation of

yourself, the rest of the medical team, and the crew is particularly strong. I

can clearly detect the feelings of Lieutenant Chen in the Power Room and those

of the rest of the crew in Control with little or no attenuation with distance.

The expected, low-key feelings of disappointment and sorrow caused by the

unsuccessful rescue bid are reaching me with shocking intensity. We have

encountered these tragedies before now, friend Conway, but this emotional

reaction to the condition of a being who is a complete stranger is—is—"

"We do feel bad about this one," Conway broke in gently, "perhaps worse than we

normally do, and the feelings are cumulative. And you, as an emotion-sensitive,

could be expected to feel them much more strongly. This might explain your

apparent hypersensitivity."

The empath trembled with the effort needed to express disagreement. It said,

"No, friend Conway. The condition and emotional radiation of the EGCL, highly

unpleasant though it is, is not the problem. It is the ordinary, everyday

radiation of everyone else—the minor embarrassments, the bursts of irritation,

the odd emotions associated with the feeling you Earth-humans call humor and the

like, are registering so strongly with me that I find difficulty in thinking

clearly."

"1 see," Conway said automatically, although he could not see at all. "Apart

from the hypersensitivity, are there any other symptoms?"

"Some unlocalized discomfort in the limbs and lower thorax," Prilicla replied.

"I checked the areas with my scanner but could find no obstructions or

abnormalities."

Conway had been reaching for his own pocket scanner but thought better of it.

Without taking a Cinrusskin physiology tape he would have only a vage idea of

what to look for, and Prides, Prilicla was a first-class diagnostician and

surgeon and if it said that there were no abnormalities then that was good

enough for Conway.

'Cinrusskins are susceptible to illness only during childhood," Prilicla went

on. "The adults do occasionally suffer from nonphysical disturbances, and the

onset of symptoms, as

expected with psychological disorders, takes many forms, some of which resemble

my present—"

"Nonsense, you're not going insane!" Conway broke in. But he did not feel as

sure as he sounded, and he was uncomfortably aware that Prilicla knew his

feelings and was beginning to tremble again.

"The obvious course," Conway said, trying to regain his clinical calm, "is to

desensitize you with a hefty sedative shot. You know that as well as I. But you

are too good a doctor to self-administer the indicated medication which would,

we both realize, simply be treating the symptoms, without first doing something

about the disease, like reporting it to me. Isn't that so?"

'That is so, friend Conway."

"Right, then," Conway said briskly. "You also realize that we can't do anything

about curing the condition until we have you back in the hospital. In the

meantime we'll treat the symptoms with heavy sedation. I want you completely

unconscious. You are relieved of all medical duties, naturally, until we have

the answer to your little problem."

Conway could almost feel the little empath's objections while he was lifting it

gently into a pressure litter fitted with gravity nullifiers and the incredibly

soft restraints required by this uftrafragile species. Finally Prilicla spoke.

"Friend Conway," it said weakly, "you know that I am the only medically trained

empath on the staff. Our patient wiil require extensive and delicate cerebral

surgery. If my condition precludes me from taking a direct part in the

operation, I wish to be treated in an adjacent ward where this abnormal

hyper-sensitivity will better enable me to monitor the EGCL's unconscious

emotional radiation.

"You know as well as I do," it went on, "that brain surgery in a hitherto

unknown life-form is largely exploratory and very, very risky, and my empathic

faculty enables me to sense when surgical intervention in any area is right or

wrong. By becoming a patient I have lost none of my abilities as a diagnostic

empath, and for this reason, friend Conway, I want your promise that I will be

placed as close as possible to the patient and restored to full consciousness

while the operation is in progress."

"Well—" Conway began.

"I am not a telepath, as you know," Prilicla said, so weakly that Conway had to

increase the gain on his translator to hear

it. "But your feelings, if you do not intend to keep this promise, will be clear

to me."

Conway had never known the normally timid Prilicla to be so forthright in its

manner. Then he thought of what the empath was asking him to do—to subject it,

in its hypersensitive state, to the emotional trauma of a lengthy operation

during which, because of the patient's strange physiological classification and

metabolism, the effectiveness of the anesthetics could not be guaranteed. His

hard-held clinical detachment slipped for a moment and he felt like any

concerned friend or relative watching a patient whose prognosis was uncertain.

Prilicla began to shake in its harness, but the sedative was taking effect, and

very soon it was unconscious and untroubled by Conway's feelings for it.

"This is Reception," a flat, translated voice said from the Control Deck's main

speaker. "Identify yourself, please. State whether visitor, patient, or staff

and give physiological classification. If unable to do so because of physical

injury, mental confusion, or ignorance of the classification system, please make

vision contact."

Conway cleared his throat and said briskly, "Ambulance ship Rhabwar, Senior

Physician Conway. Staff and two patients, all warm-blooded oxygen breathers.

Staff classifications are Earth-human DBDG, Cinrusskin GLNO, and Kelgian DBLF.

One patient is an EGCL, origin unknown, space wreck casualty in condition nine.

The second patient is also staff, a GLNO in condition three. We need—"

"Prilicla?"

"Yes, Prilicla," Conway said. "We need matching environment OR and postop

intensive care facilities for the EGCL, treatment to begin on arrival, and

adjacent accommodation for the GLNO whose empathic faculty may be required

during the operation. Can do?"

There was silence for a few minutes, then Reception said, 'Use Entry Lock Nine

into Level One Six Three, Rhabwar.

Your traffic coding is Priority Red One. ETA?"

Fletcher looked across at his astrogator, and Lieutenant Dodds said, "Two hours,

seven minutes, sir."

"Wait," Reception said.

There was another silence, much longer this time, before the voice returned.

"Diagnostician Thornnastor wishes to discuss the patient's condition and

metabolic profile with Pathologist Murchison and yourself as soon as possible.

Senior Physician Edanelt has been assigned to assist Thomnastor during the

operation. Both require information on the type and extent of the EGCL's

injuries and want you to transmit surface and deep-scan pictures at once. Until

otherwise instructed you are assigned to the Cinrusskin patient. As soon as

possible Chief Psychologist O'Mara wants to talk to you about Prilicla."

It promised to be a very busy two hours and seven minutes.

In Rhabwar's forward viewscreen the hospital grew from a fuzzy smear of light

against the stellar background until it seemed to fill all of space like a

gigantic, cylindrical Christmas tree. Its thousands of viewports blazed with

light in the dazzling variety of color and intensity necessary for the visual

equipment of its patients and staff.

Within a few minutes of Rhabwar docking at Lock Nine, the EGCL and Prilicla had

been moved into Operating Room Three and Ward Seven respectively on Level 163.

Con way was not familiar with this particular level because it had still been in

the process of conversion from the old FROB, FGLI, and ELNT medics' quarters

when he had been detached for ambulance ship duty. Now the Tralthans, Hudlars,

and Melfans had more spacious accommodations and their old abode had become the

emergency admission and treatment level for warmblooded oxygen breathers, with

its own operating theaters, intensive care units, observation and recovery

wards, and a diet kitchen which could reproduce the staples of every known

warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing race.

While Naydrad and Conway were transferring the EGCL casualty from the litter's

portable life-support and biosensor systems to those of the operating room,

Thornnastor and Edanelt arrived.

Senior Physician Edanelt had been the natural if not the inevitable choice for

this case. Not only was it one of the hospital's top surgeons, the permanent

possessor of four physiology tapes and, according to the grapevine, a being

shortly to be elevated to Diagnostician status, the crablike Melfan's

physiological classification of ELNT was perhaps the closes'

of all the life-forms on the medical staff to that of the EGCL survivor—a

vitally important factor when no physiology tape was available for the patient

being treated. Where Thornnastor, the elephantine Diagnostician-in-Charge of

Pathology, was concerned there were no physical similarities to the patient at

all, other than that they breathed the same air.

In spite of being a Tralthan FGLI and as such one of the more massive

intelligent species in the Federation, Thornnastor was no mean surgeon itself.

But on this case its primary responsibility was the rapid investigation of the

survivor's physiology and metabolism and, using its own vast experience in the

field of e-t pathology together with the facilities available in its department,

the synthesizing of the required medication which would 'iclude a safe

anesthetic, coagulant, and tissue regenerative.

Edanelt and Conway had already discussed the case in detail on the way in, as

had Murchison and her chief, Thomnastor. He knew that their initial efforts

would be directed toward repairing the grosser structural damage, after which

would come the extremely delicate, dangerous, and perhaps impossible operation

to relieve the pressure on and repair the damage to the brain and adjacent

organs caused by the extensive depressed fracturing of the carapace. At that

stage the assistance of Prilicla and its wonderfully sensitive and precise

empathic faculty would be required to monitor the operation if the EGCL was to

continue to survive as something more than a vegetable.

Conway's presence was no longer needed, and he would be more usefully employed

discussing Prilicla's condition with O'Mara.

As he excused himself and left, Edanelt waved a pincer it was spraying with the

fast-setting plastic film favored by the Melfan medics instead of surgical

gloves, but Thornastor's four eyes were on the patient, Murchison, and two

separate pieces of its equipment so that it did not see him leave.

In the corridor Conway stopped for a moment to work out the fastest route to the

Chief Psychologist's office. The three levels above this one, he knew, were the

province of the chlor-

e-breathing Illensans, and if he had not known that then the

anticontamination warnings above the interlevel airlocks would

have told him. There was no danger of contamination from the

levels below since they housed the MSVK and LSVO life-forms, each of which

breathed oxygen, required a gravity pull of one-quarter Earth normal, and

resembled thin, tripedal storks. Below them were the water-filled wards of the

Chalders and then the first of the nonmedical treatment levels where O'Mara's

department was situated.

On the way down a couple of the Nallajim MSVK medics chirped a greeting at him

and a recuperating patient narrowly missed flying into his chest before he

reached the lock into the AUGL section. For that leg of the journey he had to

don a lightweight suit and swim through the vast tanks where the thirty-meters

long, water-breathing inhabitants of the water world of Chalderscol drifted

ponderously like armorplated crocodiles in their warm, green wards. With his

suit still beaded with Chalder water, he was in O'Mara's office just

twenty-three minutes later.

Major O'Mara indicated a piece of furniture designed for the comfort of a DBLF

and said sourly, "No doubt you have been too busy in your professional capacity

to contact me, Doctor, so don't waste time apologizing. Tell me about

Pril-icla."

Conway insinuated himself carefully into the Kelgian chair and began describing

the Cinrusskin's condition, from the symptoms at onset to their intensification

to the degree where complete sedation was indicated, and the relevant

circumstance pertaining at the time. While he was speaking, the Chief

Psychologist's craggy features were still and his eyes, which opened into a

mind so keenly analytical that it gave O'Mara what amounted to a telepathic

faculty, were likewise unreadable.

As Chief Psychologist of the Federation's largest multien-vironment hospital, he

was responsible for the mental well-being of a staff of several thousand

entities belonging to more than sixty different species. Even though his Monitor

Corps rank of Major did not place him high in the hospital's Service chain of

command, and anyway had been given for purely administrative reasons, there was

no clear limit to O'Mara's authority. To him the medical staff were patients,

too, regardless of seniority, and an important part of his job was to ensure

that the right doctor was assigned to each of the weird and often wonderful

variety of patients who turned up at the hos-

pital, and that there was no xenophobic complications on either side.

He was also responsible for the hospital's medical elite, the Diagnosticians.

According to O'Mara himself, however, the real reason for the high level of

mental stability among the diverse and often touchy medical staff was that they

were all too frightened of him to risk his displeasure by going mad.

O'Mara watched him closely until Conway had finished, then he said, "A clear,

concise, and apparently accurate report, Doctor, but you are a close friend of

the patient. There is the possibility of clouded judgment, exaggeration. You are

not a psychologist but an e-t physician and surgeon who has apparently already

decided that the case is one which should be treated by my department. You

appreciate my difficulty? Please describe for me your feelings during this

mission from the rescue until now. But first, are you feeling all right?"

AH that Conway could feel just then was his blood pressure rising.

"Be as objective as possible," O'Mara added.

Conway took a deep breath and let it out agaJn slowly through his nose. "After

our very fast response to the distress signal there was a general feeling of

disappointment at the rescue of just one survivor, a survivor who was barely

alive. But you're on the wrong track, Major. The feeling was shared by everyone

on the ship, I believe, but it was not strong enough to explain the Cinrusskin's

hypersensitivity. Prilicla was picking up emotional radiation of distressing

intensity from crew members stationed at the other end of the ship, a distance

at which emoting would normally be barely detectable. And I am given neither to

maudlin sentimentality nor exaggeration of symptoms. Right at this moment 1 feel

the way I usually do in this blasted office and that is—"

"Objectively, remember," O'Mara said dryly.

"I was not trying to do your diagnostic work for you," Conway went on, bringing

his voice back to a conversational level, "but the indications are that there is

a psychological Problem. The result, perhaps, of an as yet unidentified disease,

or organic malfunction or an imbalance in the endocrine system. But a purely

psychological reason for the condition is also a Possibility which—"

"Anything is possible. Doctor," O'Mara broke in impatiently. "Be specific. What

are you going to do about your friend, and what exactly do you want me to do

about it?"

"Two things," Conway said. "I want you to check on Pril-icla's condition

yourself—"

"Which you know I will do anyway," O'Mara said.

"—and give me the GLNO physiology tape," he went on, "so that I can confirm or

eliminate the nonpsychological reasons for the trouble."

For a moment O'Mara was silent. His face remained as expressionless as a lump of

basalt, but the eyes showed concern. "You've carried Educator tapes before now

and know what to expect. But the GLNO tape is... different. You will feel Jike a

very unhappy Cinrusskin indeed. You are no Diagnostician, Conway—at least, not

yet. Better think about it."

The physiology tapes, Conway knew from personal experience, fell somewhere

between the categories of mixed blessing and necessary evil. While skill in e-t

surgery came with aptitude, training, and experience, no single being could hope

to hold in its brain the vast quantity of physiological data needed for the

treatment of the variety of patients encountered in a hospital like Sector

General. The incredible mass of clinical and anatomical information needed to

take care of them had therefore to be furnished, usually on a temporary basis,

by means of the Educator tapes, which were the brain recordings of the great

medical specialists belonging to the species concerned. If an Earth-human

doctor had to treat a Kelgian patient, he took one of the Kelgian physiology

tapes until treatment was completed, after which he had it erased. But for the

medic concerned, whether the tape was being carried for as long as it took to

perform an other-species operation or for a teaching project lasting several

months, the experience was not a pleasant one.

The only good thing about it from the medic's point of view was that he was much

better off than one of the Diagnosticians.

They were the hospital's elite. A Diagnostician was one of those rare entities

whose mind had proved itself stable enough to retain up to ten physiology tapes

simultaneously. To their data-crammed minds was given the work of original

research in xenological medicine and the diagnosis and treatment of

disease and injury in hitherto unknown life-forms. There was a saying current in

the hospital, reputed to have originated with O'Mara himself, that anyone sane

enough to be a Diagnostician was mad.

For it was not only physiological data which the tapes imparted; the complete

memory and personality of the entity who had possessed that knowledge was

impressed on the receiving mind as well. In effect, a Diagnostician subjected

himself or itself voluntarily to a form of multiple schizophrenia, with the

alien personalities sharing its mind so utterly different that in many cases

they did not have even a system of logic in common. And all too frequently the

foremost medical authorities of a planet, despite their eminence in the field of

healing, were very bad-tempered, aggressive, and unpleasant people indeed.

Such would not be the case with the GLNO tape, Conway knew, because Cinrusskins

were the most timid, friendly, and likable beings imaginable.

"I've thought about it," Conway said.

O'Mara nodded and spoke into his desk set. "Carrington? Senior Physician Conway

is approved for the GLNO tape, with compulsory postimpression sedation of one

hour. I'll be in Emergency Admissions on Level One Six Three—" he grinned

suddenly at Conway "—trying not to tell the medics their business."

Conway woke to see a large, pink balloon of a face hanging °yer him.

Instinctively he tried to scramble up the wall beside "is couch in case the

enormous, heavily muscled body sup-Porting the face fell and crushed the life

out of him. Then suddenly there was a mental shift in perspective as the

features registered concern and withdrew and the slim, Earth-human body in

Monitor Corps green straightened up.

Lieutenant Carrington, one of O'Mara's assistants, said, Easy, Doctor. Sit up

slowly, then stand. Concentrate on put-big your two feet onto the floor and

don't worry because they aren't a Cinrusskin's six."

He made good time back to 163 in spite of having to walk a large number of

beings who were much smaller than just because the Cinrusskin component of his

mind that they were big and dangerous. From Murchison he learned that O'Mara

was in Prilicla's ward, having first called in to the OR to discuss the EGCL's

basic physiology and probable environmental and evolutionary influence with

Thorn-nastor and Edanelt, both of whom had been too busy to speak to him.

They would not speak to Con way, either, and he could see why. The operation on

the EGCL had become an emergency with an unknown but probably extremely short

time limit.

When the splinters of depressed carapace had been removed from the brain over an

hour earlier, Murchison explained quietly between rumbled instructions from

Thomnastor, there had been a sudden and surprising deterioration in the EGCL's

condition. The change had been detected by Prilicla who, because of its

condition, had been excluded from any part of the operation. But the Cinrusskin

had continued to act like a doctor by making use of its abnormally heightened

emotion-detection faculty. Prilicla had pulled rank to send Ward Seven's duty

nurse to the operating theater with its empathic findings and a diffident

suggestion that if they were to relay the operational proceedings to Seven's

viewscreen, it would be able to assist them.

The cause of the deterioration was a number of large blood vessels in the

cerebral area which had ruptured when the pressure from the depressed fracture

had been removed. Trie two surgeons had been forced to accede to Prilicla's

request" because, without the empath's monitoring of the patient's level of

consciousness, they had no way of knowing whether the delicate, dangerous, and

perforce hurried repair work in the cerebral area was having a good or bad

effect—if any.

"Prognosis?" Conway murmured. But before Murchison could reply, one of

Thornnastor's eyes curled backward over its head to glare down at him.

"If this patient does not succumb to a massive cerebral hemorrhage within the

next thirty minutes," the Diagnostician said crossly, "it is probable that it

will perish, in time, from the degenerative diseases associated with extreme old

age. No* stop distracting my assistant, Conway, and tend to your own patient."

On the way to Seven Conway wondered briefly how the empath's emotion sensitivity

could detect the unconscious level

of emoting of the EGCL without the signals beings swamped by the emotional

radiation of dozens of fully conscious entities in the area. Maybe Prilicla's

recent hypersensitivity was responsible, but there was a niggling doubt at the

back of his mind which suggested that there was another reason.

O'Mara was still in the ward, steadying himself in the close to zero-gravity

conditions with a hand on an equipment rack while he and Prilicla watched the

scene in the operating theater.

"Conway, stop that!" O'Mara said sharply.

He had tried not to react when he had seen the empath's condition. But half his

mind belonged to a Cinrusskin, a member of a species acknowledged to be the

most sensitive and sympathetic intelligent life-form known to the Federation who

was regarding a brother in extreme distress while the Earth-human half was

feeling for a friend in the same condition, and it was difficult to be cool and

clinical for both of them.

"I'm sorry," he said inadequately.

"I know you are, friend Conway," Prilicla said, turning toward him. "You should

not have taken that tape."

"He was warned," O'Mara said gruffly, but his expression showed concern.

Conway was a member of an empathic race. All the memories and experience of his

GLNO life were those of a normally healthy and happy empath, but now he was no

longer an empath. He could see, hear, and touch Prilicla, but the faculty was

missing which enabled him to share the other's emotions and which subtly colored

every word, gesture, and expression so that for two Cinrusskins to be within

visual range was unalloyed pleasure for both. He could remember experiencing

empathic contact, remember having the ability all his life, but now he was

little more than a deaf-mute. What he was feeling from Prilicla so strongly was

a product of his imagination: It was sympathy, not empathy.

His human brain did not possess the empathic faculty, and it was not bestowed by

filling his mind with memories of having had it. But there were other memories

as well, covering a lifetime's experience of Cinrusskin clinical physiology, and

these he could, use.

"If you don't mind, Doctor Prilicla," Conway said with cool formality, "I would

like to examine you."

"Of course, friend Conway." Prilicla's uncontrollable shaking had diminished to

a steady, continuous trembling, an indication that Conway's emotional radiation

was under control. "There are more symptoms, Doctor, which are causing severe

discomfort."

"I can see that," Conway said as he gently moved aside one of the incredibly

fragile wings to place his scanner against the empath's thorax. "Describe them,

please."

In the two hours since Conway had last seen it, Prilicla had changed in ways

which were individually subtle but cumulatively marked. There was a strange

lack of animation and concentration in the large, triple-lidded eyes; the

delicate structure which supported the wing membranes had softened and warped so

that the translucent and iridescent membrane had fallen into unsightly folds and

wrinkles; its four tiny, wonderfully precise manipulators, which should one day

make it one of the finest surgeons in the hospital, were quivering in spite of

being gripped tightly together, and the overall aspect was of a GLNO who was old

and grievously ill.

While Conway continued the examination, the Cinrusskin part of his mind shared

his bafflement at the findings and described symptoms. They were both sure, and

in this their agreement was based on the GLNO tape donor's personal experience

and Conway's knowledge acquired over many years in Sector General, that Prilicla

was close to death.

The empath's trembling increased sharply, then diminished as Conway once again

forced a feeling of clinical detachment on himself. He said calmly, "There is no

evidence of deformation, obstruction, lesion, or infection which might cause

the symptoms you describe. Neither can I see any cause for the respiratory

difficulty you are experiencing. Some degree of empathic hypersensitivity occurs

in adolescents of your specie5' my Cinrusskin alter ego tells me, but in nothing

like the in* tensity you describe. It is possible, I suppose, that there is a

nonpathogenic and nontoxic involvement with the central nervous system."

"You think it's psychosomatic?" O'Mara said harshly, i3"3" bing a finger toward

Prilicla. "This?" .

"I would like to eliminate that possibility," Conway repljf" calmly. To

Prilicla, he said, "If you don't mind I would & to discuss your case with Major

O'Mara outside."

"Of course, friend Conway," the empath said. The constant trembling seemed as if

it would shake the fragile body apart. "But please have that Cinrusskin tape

erased as quickly as possible. Your heightened levels of concern and sympathy

are helping neither of us. And consider, friend Conway, your tape was donated by

a great Cinrusskin medical authority of the past. In all modesty, I can say

that, before coming to Sector General and in preparation for my work here, I had

reached a similar degree of eminence in the field.

'There is nothing in the clinical history of our species which even approximates

this condition," it went on, "and absolutely no precedent for the symptomology.

Regarding the possibility of a nonphysical basis for the condition, I cannot, of

course, be completely objective about this. But I have always been a happy and

well-adjusted person with no mental aberrations in childhood, adolescence, or

adulthood. Friend O'Mara has my psych file and will confirm this. My hope is

that these peculiar symptoms were so sudden in onset that their recession will

be equally rapid." '

"Perhaps Thomnastor could—" Conway began.

"The thought of that—that behemoth approaching me with investigative intent

would cause me to terminate at once. And Thomnastor is busy—Friend Edanelt, be

careful!"

Prilicla had switched its attention suddenly to the view-screen. It went on,

"Pressure, even temporary pressure in that area causes a marked decrease in the

EGCL's unconscious emoting. I suggest you approach that nerve bundle anteriorly

hrough the opening in the..."

Conway missed the rest of it because O'Mara had gripped his arm and pulled him

carefully out of the low-gravity com-partment.

That was very good advice," the Chief Psychologist said ner they were some

distance from Prilicla's ward. "Let's erase that tape, Doctor, and discuss our

little friend's problem on the way to my office."

Conway shook his head firmly. "Not yet. Prilicla said all that could be said

about its case back there. The hard facts are Cinrusskin species is not one of

the Federation's most robust. The have no stamina, no reserves to resist over a

long effects of any injury or disease, whatever the cause, know—myself, my alter

ego and, I suspect, you your-

self—that unless its condition is treated and relieved very quickly Prilicla

will die within a few hours, perhaps ten hours at most."

The Major nodded.

"Unless you can come up with a bright idea," he went on grimly, "and I would

certainly welcome it if you did, I intend to go on thinking with the Cinrusskin

tape. It hasn't helped much up to now, but I want to think without constraint,

without having to play mental games with myself to avoid emoting too strongly in

the presence of my patient. There is something very odd about this case,

something I'm missing.

"So I'm going for a walk," he ended suddenly. "I won't be far away. Just far

enough, I hope, to be outside the range of Prilicla's empathy."

O'Mara nodded again and left without speaking.

Conway put on a lightweight suit and traveled upward for three levels into the

section reserved for the spiney, membraneous, chlorine-breathing Illensan

PVSJs. The inhabitants of Illensa were not a sociable species by Earth-human

standards, and Conway was hoping to walk their foggy yellow wards and corridors

without interruption while he wrestled with his problem. But that was not to

be.

Senior Physician Gilvesh, who had worked with Conway some months earlier on a

Dwerlan DBPK operation, was feeling uncharacteristically sociable and wanted to

talk shop with its fellow Senior. They met in a narrow corridor leading from the

level's pharmacy and there was no way that Conway could avoid talking to it.

Gilvesh was having problems. It was one of those days, the Illensan medic said,

when all the patients were demanding inordinate amounts of attention and

unnecessary quantities of palliative medication, the administration of which

required its personal supervision. The junior medics and nursing staff were

under pressure, therefore, and there was evident an unusual degree of verbal

overreaction and sheer bad temper. Gilvesh said that it was explaining and

apologizing in advance for any seeming discourtesy encountered by such an

important visiting Senior as Conway. There were several of Gilvesh's cases, it

insisted, which he would find interesting.

In common with the other medics trained for service in a multienvironment

hospital, Conway had a thorough grounding

in the basics of extraterrestrial physiology, metabolism, and the more common

diseases of the Federation's member species. But for a detailed consultation and

diagnosis of the kind required here he needed an Illensan physiology tape, and

Gilvesh knew that as well as he did. So the Illensan Senior, it seemed, was

sufficiently worried by the current state of its patients to seek a quick,

other-species opinion.

With the Cinrusskin tape and his intense concern for Prilicla confusing his

clinical view, Conway could do little more than make encouraging noises while

Gilvesh discussed a painful intestinal tract, a visually dramatic and

undoubtedly uncomfortable fungoid infection involving all eight of the

spatulate limbs, and sundry other conditions to which Illensans were heir.

While the patients were seriously ill, their conditions were not critical, and

the increased dosages of painkilling medication which Gilvesh was administering

against its better judgment .seemed to be having the desired effect, albeit

slowly. Conway excused himself from the frantically busy wards as soon as he

could and headed towards the much quieter MSVK and LSVO levels.

He had to pass through Level 163 again on the way, and stopped to cneck on the

condition of the EGCL. Murchison yawned in his face and said that the operation

was going well and that Prilicla was satisfied with the patient's emotional

radiation. He did not call on Prilicla.

But he found that the low-gravity levels were having one of those days, too, and

he was immediately trapped into further consulations. He could not very well

avoid them because he was Conway, the Earth-human Senior Physician, known

throughout the hospital for his sometimes unorthodox but effective methods and

ideas on diagnosis and treatment. Here, at least, he was able to give "some

useful if orthodox advice because his Cinrusskin mind-partner was closer

temperamentally and physically to the Nallajim LSVOs and the MSVKs of Euril who

were fragile, birdlike, and extremely timid where the larger life-forms were

concerned. But he could find no solution, orthodox or otherwise, to the problem

he most des-perately wanted to solve.

Prilicla's.

He thought about going to his quarters where he would have peace and quiet in

which to think, but they were more than an hour's journey away at the other end

of the hospital and he wanted to be close by in case there was a sudden

deterioration in Prilicla's already close to critical condition. So instead he

continued listening to Nallajim patients describing their symptoms and feeling

a strange sadness because the Cinrusskin part of his mind knew that they were

suffering, feeling, and emoting on many levels but his Earth-human mental

equipment was incapable of receiving their emotional radiation. It was as if a

sheet of glass lay between them, through which only sight and sound could pass.

But something more was getting through, surely? He h'ad felt some of the aches

and pains of the Illensan patients as he was feeling, to a certain extent, those

of the Eurils and Nal-lajims around him. Or was that simply the GLNO tape

fooling him into believing that he was an empath?

A sheet of glass, he thought suddenly, and a idea began to stir at the back of

his mind. He tried to bring it out into the light, to give it form. Glass.

Something about glass, or the properties of glass?

"Excuse me, Kytili," he said to the Nallijim medic who was worrying aloud about

an atypical case of what should have been an easily treated and nonpainful

condition. "I have to see O'Mara urgently."

It was Carrington who erased the GLNO tape because the Chief Psychologist had

been called to some trouble in the chlorine-breathing level lately vacated by

Gonway. As O'Mara's senior assistant, Carrington was a highly qualified

psychologist. He studied Conway's expression for a moment and asked if he could

be of assistance.

Conway shook his head and forced a smile. "I wanted to ask the Major something.

He would probably have said no, anyway. May I use the communicator?"

A few seconds later the face of Captain Fletcher flicked onto the screen and he

said briskly, "Rhabwar, Control Deck."

"Captain," Conway said, "I want to ask a favor. If you agree to do it then it

must be clearly understood that you will not be held responsible for any

repercussions since it will be

a medical matter entirely and you will be acting under my orders.

"There is a way that I may be able to help Prilicla," he went on, and described

what he wanted done. When he finished, Fletcher looked grave.

"I'm aware of Prilicla's condition, Doctor," the Captain said. "Naydrad has been