“Prilicla,” he said into the communicator, “I am in telepathic contact with the Unborn, who will, I hope, be able to tell me of any physical or psychological changes caused by this infusion which, because of its irreversible effects, will be delivered in minute doses until I know that I have the right one. But I need you, little friend, to serve as backup by reporting changes in its emotional radiation, changes of which it itself may not be aware. If the Unborn should break off contact, or lose consciousness, you could be its only hope.”
“I understand, friend Conway,” Prilicla said, moving along the ceiling toward them so as to decrease the range. “From here I can detect quite subtle changes in the Unborn’s radiation, now that it is no longer being swamped by the Protector’s emotional output.”
Thornnastor had returned to suturing the parent’s carapace, but with one eye on the scanner and another on Conway as he bent over the infusion equipment. He delivered the first minute dose.
I am not aware of any changes in my thinking other than an increasing difficulty … difficulty in maintaining contact with you, the silent voice sounded in his mind. Neither am I conscious of any muscular activity.
Conway tried another minute dose, then another followed, in desperation, by one which was not so minute.
No change, thought the Unborn.
There was no depth to the thinking, and the meaning was barely perceptible through a rush of telepathic noise. The precontact itching somewhere between his ears was returning.
“There is fear Prilicla began.
“I know there is fear,” Conway broke in. “We’re in telepathic contact, dammit!”
… On the unconscious as well as the conscious level, friend Conway,” the Cinrusskin went on. “It is consciously afraid because of its physical weakening and loss of sensation due to its continued immobility. But at a lower level there is … Friend Conway, it may not be possible for a mind to regard itself other than subjectively, and perhaps a failing or occluded mind cannot subjectively perceive that failure.”
“Little friend,” Conway said, disconnecting the container he had been using and replacing it with the other one, “you’re a genius!”
This time it was no minute dose because they were fast running out of time, for both patients. Conway straightened up to better observe the effect on the Unborn, then ducked frantically to avoid one of its tentacles which was swinging at his head.
“Grab it before it falls off the tray!” Conway shouted. “Forget the transporter. It’s still partially paralyzed, so hold it by the tentacles and carry it to the Rumpus Room. I’d help you, but I want to protect this container …
I am aware of an increasing feeling of physical well-being, the Unborn thought.
With Murchison gripping one of its tentacles and Thornnastor the other three, the Unborn was flopping up and down between them in its efforts to break free as Conway followed them to the door of the smaller scale FSOJ life-support complex. Using Tralthan tentacles, female Earth-human hands, and one of Conway’s large feet, they were able to hold it still while he administered the remainder of the deparalyzing secretion, after which they pushed the patient inside and sealed the door.
The young Protector and recently Unborn began moving rapidly along the hollow cylinder, lashing out at the bars, clubs, and spikes which were beating and jabbing at it.
“How do you feel?” Conway asked and thought anxiously.
Fine. Very well indeed. This is exhilarating, came the reply. But I am concerned about my parent.
“So are we,” Conway said, and led the way back to the operating frame where Prilicla was clinging to the ceiling directly above the Protector. The fact that the empath was at minimum range indicated both its concern for the patient’s condition and the weakness of the FSOJ’s emotional radiation.
“Life-support team!” Conway called to the beings who were waiting at the other end of the ward. “Get back here! Loosen the restraints on all limbs. Let it move, but not enough to endanger the operating team.”
The suturing of the carapace had still to be completed, and with Thornnastor and him both working on it, that took about ten minutes. During that time there was no movement from the Protector other than the tiny quiverings caused by the blows and jabs being delivered by the life-support machinery. In deference to the patient’s gravely weakened postoperative state, Conway had ordered the equipment to be operated at half-power and that positive pressure ventilation be used to force the FSOJ to breathe pure oxygen. But by the time the remaining sutures were in place and they had conducted a detailed scanner examination of their earlier internal work, there was still no physical response.
Somehow he had to awaken it, get through to its deeply unconscious brain, and there was only one channel of communication open. Pain.
“Step up life-support to full power,” he said, concealing his desperation behind an air of confidence. “Is there any change, Prilicla?”
“No change,” the empath said, trembling in the emotional gale which could only have been coming from Conway.
Suddenly he lost his temper.
“Move, dammit!” he shouted, bringing the edge of his hand down on the inside of the root of the nearest tentacle, which was still lying flaccidly at full extension. The area he struck was pink and relatively soft, because few of the Protector’s natural enemies would have been able to make such a close approach and the tegument there was thin. Even so, it hurt his hand.
“Again, friend Conway,” Prilicla said. “Hit it again, and harder!”
“… What?” Conway asked.
Prilicla was quivering with excitement now. It said, “I think — no, I’m sure I caught a flicker of awareness just then. Hit it! Hit it again!”
Conway was about to do so when one of Thornnastor’s tentacles curled tightly around his wrist. Ponderously, the Tralthan said, “Repeated misuse of that hand will not enhance the surgical dexterity of those ridiculous DBDG digits, Conway. Allow me.”
The Diagnostician produced one of the dilators and brought it down heavily and accurately on the indicated area. It repeated the blows, varying the frequency and gradually increasing the power as Prilicla called, “Harder! Harder!”
Conway fought back the urge to break into hysterical laughter.
“Little friend,” he said incredulously, “are you trying to be the Federation’s first cruel and sadistic Cinrusskin? You certainly sound as if … Why are you running away?”
The empath was ducking and weaving its way between the lighting fixtures as it raced across the ceiling toward the ward entrance. Through the communicator it said, “The Protector is rapidly regaining consciousness and is feeling very angry. Its emotional radiation … Well, it is not a nice entity to be near when it is angry, or at any other time.”
The relatively weak structure of the operating frame was demolished as the Protector came fully awake and began striking out in all directions with its tentacles, tail, and armored head. But the life-support machinery enclosing the frame had been designed to take such punishment, as well as hitting back. For a few minutes they stood watching the FSOJ in awed silence until Murchison laughed with evident relief.
“I suppose we can safely say,” she said, “that parent and offspring are doing fine.”
Thornnastor, who had one of his eyes directed at the Rumpus Room, said, “I wouldn’t be too sure. The young one has almost stopped moving.”
They ran and lumbered back to the scaled-down life-support system of the young Protector. A few minutes earlier they had left it charging around the system, happily battering at everything mechanical that moved. Now, Conway saw with a sudden shock of despair, it was stationary inside its cudgel-lined tunnel, and only two of its tentacles were wrapped around a thick, projecting club trying to tear it free of its mounting while the other two hung perfectly still. Before Conway could speak, there was a cool, clear, and undistressed thought floating silently in his mind.