The Galactic Gourmet

CHAPTER 13

The feeling of optimism lasted for only a few hours, and during the first three days of maintaining a low profile he grew increasingly depressed, uncertain and lonely. His visits to his food synthesizer staff and Pathology became infrequent and brief because the people in both places kept looking at him when they thought his attention was elsewhere, but whether it was with sympathy or morbid curiosity he did not know. Apart from those few occasions he remained in his quarters, refused to answer the communicator and ate only from the food dispenser, which did not help lift his depression one little bit.

In the middle of the fourth day someone began tapping politely but with extraordinary persistence on his door. It was Padre Lioren.

“We have not seen you in the dining hall recently,” it said before he could speak. “You could be overdoing the low profile instruction, Gurronsevas, because a complete absence will often attract more attention than a normal presence. In any case, most other species, myself included, have difficulty telling Tralthans apart without reading their IDs. I am on my way to the dining hall now. Would you like to join me?”

“My room,” said Gurronsevas, embarrassment making him irritable, “is far from your normal path between the Psychology Department and the dining hall.”

“True,” said Lioren. “Perhaps I was making another call on this level, or I could be telling a therapeutic untruth. Which it is you will never know.”

Without knowing why, Gurronsevas said, “All right, I’ll come.”

If more than the usual number of entities were watching him, he did not know about it because he kept his four eyes directed on Lioren, Braithwaite, Cha Thrat and his platter, and none of the conversations at nearby tables were about him. When he joined the others Gurronsevas wondered aloud how they had been able to obtain O’Mara’s permission to leave their office unattended, and Braithwaite told him that it was an unwritten law of the hospital that nobody became mentally disturbed while the Psychology Department was out to lunch. Gurronsevas suspected that to be another therapeutic untruth, and decided that they were trying to humor him.

But very quickly the conversation became serious.

“We hear that you haven’t been spending much time at the food synthesizers these past few days,” said Lieutenant Braithwaite suddenly, “and there have been no recent menu changes. Was this by choice or is your work being hampered by others? O’Mara wants to know.”

Surrounded as he was by three psychologists, he decided that it would be pointless not to tell the truth.

“Both,” said Gurronsevas. “I had an aversion to meeting people, and my work was hampered, not by others but by a shortage of necessary supplies. I had intended seeking Skempton’s assistance in providing them, because they are not on the normal list of provisions and may be expensive to bring here, but I am forbidden to speak to the Colonel.”

“I see,” said Braithwaite. After a moment’s thought it went on, “In this medical madhouse we order up so much weird and wonderful stuff, equipment and medication and such, that procurement isn’t normally a problem for any head of department …Are you on friendly terms with Thornnastor.”

“Thornnastor has always behaved politely towards me,” said Gurronsevas. “But I fail to see the relevance of the Diagnostician-in-Charge of Pathology in this matter.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Lioren, “at least not yet. But if you were to explain your difficulty to Thornnastor, it should be possible to circumvent the Colonel. Skempton’s principal assistant is the Chief of Procurement, Creon-Emesh. It and Thornnastor have been close friends for many years, so much so that it would be difficult for either to refuse a favor asked by the other.”

“I understand,” said Gurronsevas. “When two members of a species engage in such a long-term emotional and sexual relationship, they think and feel as one …”

He broke off because Braithwaite and Cha Thrat seemed to be having respiration difficulties. Before he could express his concern, Lioren said, “They have been playing bominyat together, many say to planetary championship level, at every opportunity for more than a decade. Creon-Emesh is a Nidian, so the relationship is not, therefore, physical.”

“My deepest apologies to both entities,” said Gurronsevas in confusion. “But if Creon-Emesh is the Colonel’s assistant, would it not tell—”

“It would not,” said Braithwaite firmly. “It may be that I am divulging privileged information from Creon-Emesh’s psych file …”

“I would say there was no doubt about it,” said Lioren.“… when I tell you that the Chief of Procurement is an intelligent, able and ambitious entity who does not believe in bothering its superior with trifles, or even serious problems which it is capable of solving itself. In short, it is one of those rare and valued assistants who is constantly trying to make its superior redundant. It has respect but no strong affection for Skempton, and it will be aware of the Colonel’s present antipathy towards you, so if you were to make the request in confidence and word it so that Creon-Emesh was faced with a challenge in the bominyat tradition …”

“With a mind as devious as that,” said Cha Thrat, “the Lieutenant should play bominyat.”“… you might get your supplies,” Braithwaite continued, ignoring the interruption, “without the Colonel knowing anything about it. Or would you prefer me to make the suggestion to Creon-Emesh?”

“No,” said Gurronsevas. “In my time I, too, have played bominyat, but only at inter-city level, so Creon-Emesh and I will have that in common. I am most grateful, both for the suggestion and your offer of help, but I would prefer to do it myself.”

“If you are a bominyatti, too,” said Braithwaite, raising a hand to acknowledge and dismiss his thanks, “you have nothing to worry about. But enough of these games of devious diplomacy and calculated manipulation of obligations. What menu surprises are you planning for us?”

The off-duty accommodation of Creon-Emesh was spacious, for a Nidian, but tiny and claustrophobic so far as the majority of other species were concerned. The ceiling was so low that, even with his knee-joints bent to maximum flexion and his arms tightly folded, Gurronsevas’s head scraped the ceiling and his body threatened to dislodge the pieces of decorative vegetation hanging from the walls or demolish the ridiculously fragile furniture. An area on one side of the room had been cleared and the ceiling raised for the convenience of a more massive visitor, Thornnastor presumably, and he moved to it with relief.

“You are not here just to play bominyat,” said Creon-Emesh before Gurronsevas could speak, “so that can wait. Thorny keeps telling me that my place resembles a Tralthan rodent’s nest, so if you say anything polite about it I would not believe you. Please do not waste playing time. What is it exactly that you want of me?”

Gurronsevas tried not to take offense. The Nidians as a species, it was said by their many critics, were not particularly strong or intelligent or in possession of effective natural weapons that had enabled them to become dominant on their home planet; they had got there purely through their sheer, bad-tempered impatience to evolve. But he felt it necessary to display a modicum of good manners.

“Nevertheless,” he said, “I am obliged to you for agreeing to this meeting, especially as it is taking place when you are supposed to be off-duty.”

“Off-duty, on-duty, hah!” said the Nidian impatiently, nodding towards a display screen which was showing columns of figures rather than one of the entertainment channels. “It is the curse of the truly dedicated not to know the difference. But if what I hear about you is true, you have the same problem. What exactly is it that you want from me?”

“Information on ordering procedures, assistance and your discretion,” said Gurronsevas. The other’s bluntness of speech seemed to be contagious.

“Explain,” said Creon-Emesh.

But not too contagious, Gurronsevas thought. This was a situation which would need more than a few words of explanation. He said, “When I came to Sector General I carried few personal effects because, as you well know, Tralthans do not wear clothing and scorn the use of body ornaments. Instead I brought with me a quantity of herbs, spices and condiments native to Traltha, Earth, Nidia and the other worlds who practice the cooking of food with imagination rather than as a means of eliminating any harmful bacteria it might contain. Material from this personal store has been used to modify the standard meals of a few test subjects, and now I wish to incorporate them, as well as a number of other improvements I have planned, in the main dining hall menus. When I am forced to leave the hospital I would like to be remembered for something other than the accident in Bay Twelve, or wrecking the Chalder ward or—”

“Yes, yes, I sympathize,” Creon-Emesh broke in. “But what do you want me to do?”

“The material is used in very small quantities so far as individual meals are concerned,” Gurronsevas went on, “but if they are to be made available to everyone, which was my intention from the beginning, the small supply brought with me from Nidia will be exhausted within a week.”

“Then order what you need,” said Creon-Emesh. “You have a budget.”

“Yes, a generous one,” said Gurronsevas unhappily, “but regrettably insufficient. That is why I wanted to speak to Colonel Skempton, to have it increased. The supplies I need originate on a score of different planets, and the transportation costs alone would greatly exceed it.”

Creon-Emesh gave a sudden, sharp bark and said, “You are too innocent for your own good, Gurronsevas, and plainly you have been too busy to discuss this problem with anyone in Procurement. But your only concern lies with the preparation of food rather than how it reaches us. Had you not become a foul stench in Skempton’s nose, the Colonel would have educated you in our ways, as I am about to do. So listen carefully.

“You already know,” it went on quickly, “that the Monitor Corps is responsible for the supply and maintenance of Sector General. For this it uses a very small part of the Federation’s overall budget that finances the service as a whole. Supply includes providing us with species-specialized surgical instruments and equipment, medication, other-species atmospheres and, of course, food mass to top-up the synthesizer reservoirs as well as the Hudlar and Illensan food tanks which are more convenient to import. The Monitors also bring us patients who are beyond the clinical capabilities of the Federation planetary hospitals and are referred here for treatment, or the casualties of space accidents, or newly-discovered life-forms who are damaged or diseased or otherwise in need of medical care. Because the Corps vessels are not designed specifically for the large-scale transport of freight, they charter ships like Trivennleth to do the work. It is therefore possible, with a little creative accounting within your budget allowance, to purchase supplies from any part of the explored Galaxy and have the transport charges set against the Corps’ overall supply and maintenance budget, which is much too large for them to worry about what you are doing. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

It was as if the artificial gravity grids in the floor had failed and he was about to float into the air, so great was the weight that had been lifted from him. But before Gurronsevas could find the words to express his understanding and his gratitude, Creon-Emesh spoke again.

“Naturally, the maintenance aspect does not concern you,” it said, and barked softly, “although recently you have been the cause of quite a lot of structural repairs being carried out. You have a list of your requirements?”

“Thank you, yes,” Gurronsevas stammered. “The principal items have been committed to memory. But will what you are doing for me cause you to smell as badly to Skempton as I do, or otherwise affect your chances of career advancement? And are you sure all this can be hidden from the Colonel?”

“To answer you in order,” said Creon-Emesh impatiently, “no, no and no. We cannot hide anything from the Colonel, the system we use precludes it. Skempton will be able to see everything we do but, as it has been said many times, life is too short to waste time checking every requisition order which, on average, number several thousand per day. He leaves that to trusted but obviously untrustworthy subordinates like myself. So long as the identification codes, routing instructions and quantities ordered are not abnormal they will be accepted without question. If any of the items are likely to arouse Supply Department’s suspicions, I’ll tell you to think again.

“And remember,” it went on, “ordering in quantity is preferable to periodic reordering of small amounts, which would increase the chances of what you are doing being detected. What are your principal needs?”

He tried to thank it again, but the other seemed to be interested only in his needs which, because of the little Nidian’s continued lack of objection, were becoming more ambitious and daring by the moment. But Gurronsevas’s enthusiasm was checked when Creon-Emesh barked suddenly and held up both of its tiny hands.

“No,” it said firmly. “You cannot have morning-gathered Orligian crelgi leaves. Gurronsevas, be reasonable.”

“I am reasonable,” he replied. “The leaves have a subtle taste-enhancing effect which has crossed the species barrier, and are widely used by cooks of many warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing races. I am also disappointed.”

“You are also forgetful,” said the Nidian. “They would arrive here three days minimum after picking, because that is the fastest they could be hyper-jumped here. Our Orligian procurement office would have no trouble supplying them, but a jump like that is ordered only for urgently-required medication or to carry a critically ill patient. An emergency jump from Orligian to Sector General with a crate of herbal plants would most certainly attract the Colonel’s attention, so it must be no to that one. Accept the leaves dry-frozen by normal freight delivery and I’ll say yes.”

Gurronsevas thought for a moment, then said, “There is an alternative called, on Earth, nutmeg. The taste difference is too subtle to be detected by anything but the most educated of palates, and it travels well. I have added it to the edible mud shell of the magma-flashed Corellian struul dishes to enhance the otherwise bland taste of the fish. And on Nidia the sauce I used with your braised criggleyut contained a sprinkling of nutmeg seasoning to bring out the—”

“You intend to add criggleyut to our menu?” Creon-Emesh broke in excitedly. “It has been a favorite of mine since my adult fur grew.”

“At the earliest opportunity,” Gurronsevas replied, and added, “About fifty pounds of it would be adequate for my Nidian and other-species’ requirements.”

Creon-Emesh shook its head. “You haven’t been listening to me, Gurronsevas. Without mentioning it to you I have been trebling and quadrupling the amounts you have been ordering because you are not asking for enough. Small quantities attract attention. The unloading bay personnel might think that anything that small must be urgently required medication wrongly coded, rather than food, and open it to check, which would bring you to Skempton’s attention. With a taste-enhancer that has so much other-species popularity and a long shelf life, I suggest a minimum order of five tons.”

“But it is used in minute quantities,” he protested. “Five tons of nutmeg would last us a hundred years!”

“In a hundred years,” said Creon-Emesh, “the hospital will still be here, I expect, and its inhabitants will still be stuffing their eating orifices with food. Is there anything else? I want time for a game before you go.”