“Lectures. I have to go,” he said. Then he paused to smile at O’Mara and added, “Major, earlier I suggested that you go easy on the lieutenant. Go very easy on him.”
When they had gone, Craythorne nodded toward the vacated chair and said, “Lieutenant, I think you have raised insubordination to the status of a major art form and there are times, like now, when I could find it easy to be nasty to you. But you always wriggle out of trouble by the sneaky expedient of always being right. So… “’ He slapped a pile of folders that were lying on his desk. . I’m giving you a long, boring, routine job which you may like to consider as a punishment. It’s the weekly trainee updates for inclusion, if you think there is anything that warrants further investigation, in their psych files. I don’t believe you will be able-or maybe I’m hoping that you won’t be able-to do anything creatively insubordinate with them. And when you’ve finished that chore, go to Level OneEleven and start practicing on the residents what you’ve been preaching to Mannen and me about the fun aspects of eating meals together and listening to each others’ sleeping noises.”
Craythorne stopped but continued to look at him without speaking.
“Sir,” said O’Mara, to fill the lengthening silence.
“Regarding the Thornnastor business,” Craythorne went on, “that was very well done, whether or not you knew what you were doing at the time. In the light of the emotional content, we will not use the Marrasarah tape on anyone again. You disobeyed standing instructions, for the first and only time if you want to remain here, by self-impressing the tape for a few hours before erasing it, right? So the disobedience has been rectified and the incident will not be mentioned again?
As he lifted the pile of folders, O’Mara nodded without speaking. Major Craythorne was a fine man and he didn’t want to lie to him and so, in Kelgian fashion, he remained silent. It was true that O’Mara had impressed himself with the Marrasarah mind tape. He just hadn’t erased it again.
His punishment took just two hours to complete and while it was routine it was not completely boring unless, O’Mara thought, boredom like beauty lay in the mental eye of the beholder. Each one of the two hundred-odd files contained information on the individual trainees’ past and current progress, with notes on lectures attended and the performance of ward duties, and particularly their person-to-person contacts with patients, by the relevant tutors and charge nurses.
In the majority of cases the notes consisted of a hastily scrawled “Progress satisfactory” or “Moving up, but not too fast.” One of them, signed by Mannen, said, “Not happy working with Illensans, but then who is? Will schedule another protective suit drill in chlorine environment soonest. No psych action required unless trainee’s fear increases.”
There were two other such entries, both in Mannen’s writing. One read, “Creesik (in), MSVK. Initial progress rapid and highly satisfactory but recently has been slowing down to slightly above average. Watching,” and the other said, “Neenil (f), MSVK. Initially a very slow starter but now picking up nicely. Keen, seems to have discovered extra motivation, but displays signs of fatigue. Have suggested that it spend a little more of its free time not studying so hard.”
Psychiatric action had not been requested on either of the last two cases, but O’Mara had a feeling about them, or maybe it was simply a hope driven by boredom that it would be nice if he could do a little therapeutic tinkering before the trouble, if there was going to be any trouble, could develop. He placed the two files on one side for closer study, telling himself that they both lived on Level One-Eleven and he would be in the neighborhood anyway.
When he returned to them, O’Mara decided that it would be a good idea to learn something about their home environment and physical body requirements before he began a covert, unofficial invstigation of their minds. At present all he knew about them was that one was female and the other male, that they were at different levels of training with lectures and ward duties that didn’t coincide, and so far as he knew the only thing they had in common was belonging to the same species. He called up the library computer and aked it to display general information, sociological environment, and medicine as practiced by physiological classification MSVK, the Euril life-form.
His reception on One-Eleven was less hostile than the first one had been. The usual proportion of door IDs were tagged ON DUTY or DO NOT DISTURB, and the people who did answer, with the exception of the Kelgians, showed a combination of politeness and impatience as they listened. That was understandable, because they had probably heard Mannen, Craythorne, or himself saying it already. The sleeping noises coming from a few of the rooms sounded slightly less horrendous, O’Mara thought, but that might be because he was getting used to them.
He found Creesik’s door ajar and marked simply ABSENT, but Neenil’s was tagged OCCUPIED and was opened at once.
“Trainee Neenil,” he began, only to be interrupted by the other’s twittering speech.
“Creesik,” it said. “I was just leaving?
“Please don’t leave on my account,” he said, thinking quickly. “I intended to visit each of you. If you will not be inconvenienced, it will be easier for me to speak to both of you at the same time?
“Then come in, O’Mara,” said Creesik.
It was the first time he had had more than a glimpse from the corridor entrance into a Euril’s living quarters although, in an attempt to show good manners by not staring, he used his peripheral vision to examine the place as another Euril dropped from a perch before the study alcove and screen and hopped forward to meet him.
“I am Neenil,” it said, the soft twittering of its voice forming a background to the translated words. “You have our attention?
“Thank you,” said O’Mara, still appearing not to look at his surroundings. The walls were covered with pictures of Euril land and seascape, a photograph of what looked like the immediate family flock, and a simple but quietly resplendent framed certificate which, judging from its place of honor above the study console, had originated from an important institution of some kind. Occupying one-quarter of the floor area in one corner was a circular nest standing to about Euril shoulder height, thickly upholstered and with light, padded sheets hanging over one edge. He went on, “If anything, this a social rather than a professional visit. I wanted to let you know what we are hoping to do about the nightly noise pollution?
Creesik cocked its head to one side and said, “Our senior tutor and your Major Craythorne have already discussed this with us, including the unavoidable delays expected in the arrival of the hush-field installations and in replacing the dining-hall furniture. We both formed the impression that these were problems we might have to solve ourselves. Was there anything else you wanted to say?”
“Only to ask if you have any other complaints or problems,” said O’Mara, trying to keep the conversation going. “To Earthhumans, yours is a very unusual species. How are you both settling in here, generally?”
Cocking its head again, Creesik said, “If you are wondering why and how a species with three legs and no hands is able to perform surgery, you won’t be the first to ask. We use our beaks rather than our nonexistent digits. What precisely did you want to know?”
In its condescending fashion the library computer had given him all that a nonspecialist layman enquirer needed to know about Euril evolution and history, couched in terms that had reminded him of his lessons in elementary school. The species no longer had the ability to fly because they had long since rid themselves in many subtle and deadly ways of the many-limbed and clawed predators from whom flight had been their only escape. Using their long, flexible beaks and precisely controlled neck muscles, they became tool users and ultimately developed the technologically advanced civilization that enabled them to travel to the stars. They had done it by using their brains and their beaks. In the area of surgery, they used a range of hollow, conelike instruments fitted to their beaks, and the rapid, pecking procedures they had developed were unequaled when speedy surgery was required. Eurils did everything, well, practically everything, including talk, with their mouths.