Mind Changer

CHAPTER 6

Close on half a century earlier, the idea of promotion was something that O’Mara had not felt happy about-although, to be honest with himself, the fact that it had never been offered might have played a large part in forming that feeling. Now, for the first time in his working life, he was being offered one and his first reaction was to shake his head. Vigorously.

“A facial expression reflecting pleasure,” said Major Craythorne gravely, “and a simple word of thanks with a few questions tacked on regarding your exact status, job description, and increased level of pay is what I expected from you, not an outright refusal. This is the first step on a ladder you must have wanted to climb all your life, O’Mara, and with your proven capabilities the succeeding steps will be easier. What are you afraid of?”

Craythorne sighed, wrinkled his nose, and in a gentle, apologetic voice said, “I’d ask you to sit down for a while and talk about this, but you’re filthy and you stink to high heaven as would the chair when the next person comes in to sit on it,so I’m afraid you’ll have to take the good news on your feet. What the hell were you doing?”

“I was helping clear the blocked waste-disposal system on Level Thirty-Three when your- “What possible reason? the Major broke in, “did my xenopsychology assistant have for clearing blocked latrines?”

“Four reasons? O’Mara replied. “The squad leader had been called away; his men didn’t know what the hell they were doing, while I had, ah, previous experience in the job; I didn’t have anything urgent to do at the time; and, well, they asked me nicely for a change.”

Like everything else about him, Graythorne’s irritation was gentle and controlled. He said, “Listen carefully to me, O’Mara. You are never again to perform menial tasks like that just because you happen to have previous experience in them, or because you are asked nicely. From now on I want your position within this establishment to be clear to everyone. That is why I’m inducting you into the Monitor Corps and giving you an immediate promotion to…

He broke off and added, “At last it looks as if you’re going to say something. Very likely it will be offensive, but say it anyway before you blow a fuse.”

O’Mara took a deep breath and strove vainly for internal calm. He could almost feel his face radiating deep into the infrared. After a moment he said, “Sir, I’m not happy with the idea of promotion in a civilian job mostly because, unlike you, I don’t have the good manners or the knack of giving orders without also giving offense, or maybe even starting a fight. If absolutely necessary I could try to improve my manners, lengthen my temper, and learn to live with that situation. But joining a routine-indoctrinated and disciplineoriented organization like the Monitor Corps, and going through basic training and having to stand at attention and salute and… You know I don’t take orders very well, so I wouldn’t last a week. I’ve no wish to be personally offensive—”

“If it helps explain your obviously strong feelings in the matter? Craythorne broke in, “you have permission to be personally offensive. Within reason.

“All right,” said O’Mara, staring into a pair of eyes which, he had found over the years, had the disconcerting ability to stare back without wavering. “In the civilian sector I’ve had painful experience with nominal superiors who made a pretense at the habit of command but who needed their nominal subordinates to keep their nose, or a less delicate body orifice, wiped clean. If I did join the Corps and some NCO or officer, present company excepted, told me to do something that I knew to be wrong, and I could be severely disciplined for not doing it, well… Sir, joining the Monitor Corps is not an option?

Craythorne was still holding his eyes as he said quietly, “Joining the Corps is the only option, O’Mara, if you wish to remain in Sector General. I know you well enough to feel sure that, faced with the prospect of leaving, you will exert a considerable amount of self-control in order to remain here. Right?”

O’Mara swallowed and for a moment he couldn’t speak. The thought of leaving the hospital, with its nice or normally nasty construction crews and its increasingly weird intake of doctors and medical trainees, to return to the space construction gangs whose brains, if not actually dead, had never been given the opportunity to live, was too terrible to contemplate. He was beginning to develop a proprietary, almost a parental interest in the place and its people, and he knew that being forced to leave it would hurt more than anything in his short and already hurt-filled life.

But as a Corpsman O’Mara didn’t know if he was capable of that much self-control.

“I thought so? said the major. He gave O’Mara a brief, sympathetic smile of encouragement and went on, “For your information, the construction of the hospital is within a few weeks of completion and the civil contractors and their people are rapidly being phased out. Henceforth the Monitor Corps will be wholly responsible for all aspects of supply, maintenance, power requirements, supply logistics, catering, and so on. The only civilians here will be the medical staff, which is why, considering your lack of formal medical training, you have no choice but to be one of us. To stay here you must be a medic or a member of the Corps. I’m not breaking any rules, because for this place they haven’t been written yet; I’m just bending them a little.

“As the ranking officer on site? Craythorne went on, his smile broadening, “I have applied for and received permission to waive the usual basic-training procedures. I can’t imagine you ever needing to know about space ordnance or riot-control weapons here, so you are joining us as a specialist in other-species psychology and will continue with the work you are doing now. You will not have to worry about junior NCOs telling you what to do, although it might be a good idea to listen to their advice if or when they give it…

The major sat back in his chair, his face becoming politely stern.

… but you will, however, obey orders? he went on. “Especially mine. The first one is to clean up and call on Maintenance Technician Wenalont on Level Fifty-One, Room Eighteen. It has already altered the issue uniforms and kit to your measurements, which it has had for the past two weeks, and reports them ready for fitting.” He glanced at his watch. “Then at fifteen hundred hours precisely I want you back here for an important technical briefing from a medical VIP, and looking and smelling a lot more presentable. It will be a long session so don’t skip lunch.”

O’Mara’s mind and tongue were still paralyzed by surprise. He nodded wordlessly and turned to go. Craythorne wrapped a knuckle gently against the top of his desk.

“And if I ever hear of you cleaning latrines again? he added, you and your service career will both be terminated on the spot. Do you understand me, Lieutenant O’Mara?”

On the way to Level Fifty-One the main corridors were clear of major obstructions and, he noticed since the major had drawn his attention to the reason for it, the remaining equipmentinstallation jobs were being done by people in Monitor green coveralls while the only civilians he passed were wearing medical insignia and whites if they were wearing anything at all. He was already worrying about what exactly he should say and how he should say it to this Wenalont character, but in the event it was the other who did all the talking.

“I am Technical Sergeant Wenalont, sir? it said briskly. “As a Melfan I haven’t much use for clothing, since my exoskeleton is impervious to all but the most severe climatic changes, but my hobby is tailoring and the fitting of wearing apparel to weird and unusual body configurations. No offense is intended, I meant weird and unusual to me. We will begin from the epidermis out, with the undergarment and the tubular coverings for the feet and lower legs. Please strip off, sir.

I’m not supposed to take orders from NCOs, thought O’Mara, feeling his face growing warm. But then, he told himself, if they were preceded by “please” and he was called “sir” it was not technically an order.

“Now we will fit the outer garments? the sergeant went on a few moments later, “that is, the coveralls which serve as the working uniform, and the uniform proper. Once I have ensured that the fit is smart and comfortable, duplicates of all these garments will be sent to your new quarters on the officers’ level…

He felt Wenalont’s hard, bony wrists against the sides of his head as it pulled, settled, and straightened each garment onto his shoulders and neck. It never stopped talking about fastenings, insignia, and the types and proper positioning of antigravity or weapons belts and equipment harness. Then suddenly it was over. The sergeant grasped him firmly by the upper arms and rotated him to face the full-length mirror.

The man looking back at him was dressed in the full, darkgreen uniform with the Monitor Corps crest glittering on the collar and the insignia of rank and space service emblem decorating the shoulder tabs, one of which retained his neatly folded beret. O’Mara had expected the sight to make him feel ridiculous. He didn’t know how he felt exactly, but ridiculous was not one of the feelings.

He wondered if his sudden surge of mixed feelings was due to the fact that for the first time in his life as a quarrelsome, intellectually frustrated, and friendless loner he had become, without changing these characteristics one bit, a person who belonged to something. He dragged his mind back to the sergeant, who was talking again.

“The fit, sir? said Wenalont, moving around and staring him up and down with its large, insectile eyes, “is very good, neat without being constricting. You are unusually large and heavily muscled for an Earth-human male. If you were to appear dressed like that in the dining hail, I feel sure that the Earth-human females on the medical staff would be greatly impressed. But may I offer a word of advice, sir?”

The idea of him trying to impress female medics was so ridiculous that he almost laughed out loud. Instead he tried to be polite, as he thought Major Graythorne would have liked him to be, and said, “Please do.”

“It is regarding service dress protocol and saluting,” the sergeant went on. “In the space service we do not go in much for the exchange of such compliments because of the restricted living and working environment. As well, by the nature of things there are many fewer officers than there are other ranks, so that their subordinates would have to salute them perhaps three or four times a day while they would have to return these compliments hundreds of times a day, which can be time-wasting, irritating, and physically tiring for the officer concerned. As a simple verbal expression of respect, the word ’sir’ or its other-species equivalent, and the wearing of issue coveralls with appropriate insignia patches, is considered acceptable. The only exception is during occasions such as inspections or visits by high-ranking Corps officers or government officials when the full uniform must be worn and all the military courtesies performed.

“I hope you aren’t disappointed, sir? the sergeant went on, “but if you were to go to lunch in full uniform instead of coveralls, every subordinate you met or passed would stop whatever they were doing to exchange salutes with you, so that you would need to eat one-handed. But if that is what you desire—”

“No!” O’Mara broke in, and then for the first time in many years he laughed out loud. “I’m relieved, not disappointed. And, well, thank you for your help and advice, Sergeant. Unless you need me for anything else, I’ll change into coveralls again at once because I’m pushed for time.”

“A moment before you change? said the other. “My congratulations on your commission, sir.”

One of the sergeant’s long, shiny, sticklike and multi-jointed forelimbs swept out sideways and upward to come to a rigid halt beside its head and, for the first time in his life, O’Mara found himself returning a salute.

He did not have to undergo the embarrassing experience again, even though the dining hall for warm-blooded oxygenbreathers was crowded with Corps and medical personnel. His crisp new coveralls with their bright, painfully clean patches denoting his rank and departmental insignia, O’Mara was relieved to find, aroused no comment or even notice. During dessert he was joined by a trainee nurse who had asked politely to take the empty place at his table, but as it was a Tralthan with four times his body mass and six elephantine feet, he doubted that it had been attracted by his uniform.