“Man Khalinov,” said the judge. The barrister stopped. “This does not mean that your logic and efforts have been for naught. If you have time prior to your return flight to Deluros VIII, please accept my invitation to join me in my chambers, and bring along some of your legal books. I would very much like to exchange ideas with you.”
“I'd consider it a rare privilege, your honor,” said Khalinov, wondering if he had won or lost. “Is there any particular subject you'd like to cover?” “I think we shall begin,” said the Atrian, “with involuntary manslaughter.” And then he knew: Krantz had lost.
But Man, just possibly, had won.
9: THE MEDICS
...So while it took Man countless eons to develop his medical science to the point where almost all human diseases could be diagnosed and treated with some degree of certainty that a cure would be effected, he was forced to cover the same ground a thousand times over in an infinitesimal portion of the time when contact with other races was made. And, as if this weren't enough of a problem for those
medics who boldly strode toward these new and incredibly varied horizons, there was always in the
background Man's precarious position in the political schemata of the galaxy... —Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement (No mention of the Medics can be found inOrigin and History of the Sentient Races .) “What'swrong with it?” snapped a haggard Darlinski. “Hell, I don't even know what keeps the damned thing alive!”
“I'm not paying you enough for you to turn prima donna on me,” said Hammett harshly. “Keep making tests until you find out what's affecting him.” “First,” said Darlinski, “you've got to prove to me that it's a him. Second, you're not paying me enough to do very damned much of anything. And third—” “Cure him and you've got a raise,” said Hammett quickly, with more than a touch of irritation. “I don't want a goddamned bloody raise!” yelled Darlinski. “I want a healthy specimen of whatever this is so I can see what the hell the difference is!” “He's all we've got.”
“Didn't it have any friends or subordinates?” demanded Darlinski. “For the twelfth time, no,” said Hammett. “Then, for the thirteenth time, what in blue blazes is a planetary ambassador doing without even a single subordinate around?”
“I keep telling you, I don't know. All I know is he screamed once, collapsed, and couldn't be immediately revived, so they brought him here.” “Of course they couldn't revive it. Hell, if they slapped its face they might have broken every bone in what seems to pass for its head. And for all I know, it'd melt if anyone threw cold water on it.” A light on an intercom unit flashed, and Darlinski pressed a button. “Pathology here, boss,” said a laconic voice. “Got anything for us to work on yet?” Darlinski uttered a few choice but unprintable words into the speaker. “Don't get sore, boss. All you got to do is figure out what makes it tick.” “I know,” snarled Darlinski. “The fat bastard that runs this shop just promised me a raise if I get it right.” “Boy, am I impressed,” said the voice. “The fat bastard that runs the planet just promised us a war if you get it wrong. Have fun.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Hammett, walking over to the intercom. “Haven't you seen a newstape?” said the voice from Pathology. “Hell, you've had the damned thing up
there for six hours.”
“Just tell me what's going on,” said Hammett. “Seems this joker's buddies back on Pnath are claiming we've either kidnapped or killed it. I gather it was here on a peacemaking mission—a very private little war the powers-that-be didn't see fit to tell us about—and evidently they think we're doing them dirt. According to the media, a tiny skirmish is about to become a full-fledged war unless we can convince the Pnathians, or Pnaths, or whatever they call themselves, that we're acting in good faith.” “Have any of those geniuses down at Central thought to ask for a Pnathian medic?” asked Darlinski. “Yep. But the Pnathians think we've killed or brainwashed this one and they won't send any others until it's returned whole and healthy.”
“Beautiful,” said Darlinski. “What if the damned thing dies on me?” “Well,” chuckled the pathologist, “I guess the Navy can always use another bedpan scrubber. Ta-ta.” The intercom switched off.
Hammett waited until Darlinski's stream of curses had left him momentarily breathless, then walked over to the Pnathian ambassador.
“I didn't realize it was going to turn into this kind of incident,” he said. “Let's get back to work.” “What do you mean, ‘Let's?'” snapped Darlinski. “You wouldn't know a tumor from a wart. Go on back to your goddamned office and worry about how to pay for next week's heating bill.” He turned back to the patient, and Hammett, shrugging, left and closed the door very carefully behind him.
Darlinski took a deep breath, sighed, and looked at the notes he had scribbled down during the past few hours. They weren't much. The Pnathian breathed an oxygen-nitrogen compound, but there was no way of telling whether a dose of forty percent oxygen would revive it or kill it; ditto for a ninety percent nitrogen dose. Its skin was extremely fine-textured, but he didn't dare take a sample, or even a scraping; for all he knew, the Pnathians, or at least this particular one, were chronic hemophiliacs. And for that reason he couldn't take a sample of the being's blood, either. Nor could he even make a guess about the gravity of the Pnathian's home world. It had three legs, allowing it a tripodal stance, which implied a heavier gravity; but the structure seemed much more fragile than a heavier gravity would allow. And, of course, he didn't dare X-ray it for fear of a fatal, or at least terribly adverse, reaction.
There were no hands or arms as such, but instead a trio of tubular appendages, all extremely flexible, not quite tentacles but far from hands. He tried to figure out what function they served, but couldn't. Obviously, the race was intelligent, and had developed the machinery of space travel and war, but when he tried to imagine the control panel of one of their ships, his mind came up blank. As for the head, it extended on a long thin stalk of a neck and contained not one but four orifices that might or might not have been mouths. They were arranged perpendicular to the ground, and the third
orifice was the only one that fogged the crystal of his watch. However, he had never come across any
being that required four mouths, nor did it seem likely that the remaining orifices could all be breathing apparatus, unless the being had the equivalent of three stuffed noses. Theycould be ears, but it seemed unlikely; in every species he had ever examined, human and nonhuman, sapient and nonsapient, the ears were set much farther apart for greater efficiency. Urethra and anus? Possibly; but, if so, which was which, and how could he differentiate them from the mouth? He grinned at the thought of some alien physician pouring the equivalent of hot chicken broth into his rectum, then frowned as he realized that it would only be funnyafter he cured the patient. Or, he admitted honestly to himself,if he cured it. The Pnathian had two eyes. The lids were over them, but he had lifted them and seen that they were quite dull, with the pupils reacting only very slightly to light stimuli. Just above the eyes was the cranium, an oblong structure stuck atop the rest of the face at a 45-degree angle, almost like a baby whose head was terribly misshapen due to a difficult birth. Its pulse was almost twice that of his own, but that could simply be because of the gravitational difference. Or it could be a sign of impending death. Or... Darlinski cursed once again, stepped back, and stared at the Pnathian. He felt terribly oppressed. Hell, oxygen-breathers weren't even his specialty. But Jacobson was on vacation somewhere on Deluros VIII, so they'd pulled the boy genius out of the chlorine ward, pointed him in the direction of the Pnathian, patted him on the head, and said Go.