“It is most urgent,” Lioren went on, “that the food poisoning possibility be confirmed or eliminated as quickly as possible. The normal procedures for pathological investigation and analysis are too slow and uncertain right now. The investigators are too busy treating patients, or are patients themselves, or they have discounted the food-poisoning theory because it is too unlikely for them to waste time on it. But you will know what to look for and where. Food is your area of expertise, Chief Dietitian.”
“But, but this is inexcusable,” Gurronsevas said angrily. “It is a personal affront. Never before have I been associated with an establishment or a food service operation so lax in its standards of food hygiene that patrons were poisoned wholesale!”
“It may not be food poisoning,” Lioren reminded him firmly. “That is what you and I have to find out.”
“Very well,” said Gurronsevas. He took a deep breath and sought for inner calm before going on, “I would like to have the patients questioned regarding the exact composition of the suspect meals, the time that the meal was eaten, if any unusual taste or consistency was detected, and whether the patient visited any particular section of the hospital or engaged in any activity that was common to all of them and which might have brought it into contact with a source of infection other than the food. Then I want to check on the operation of the main dining hall and subsidiary food computers and call up a breakdown of the menu demand and synthesizer output for the times when the infection is thought to have occurred. I would like to obtain this information at once.”
“I can tell you exactly how one patient behaved,” said Lioren quietly. “But Gurronsevas, please remember that the food poisoning idea is mine alone. Officially you are not in the hospital and, if you are innocent in this matter, it would be wrong to make you reveal yourself.”
“If the symptoms in all cases are uniform,” said Gurronsevas, feeling in no mood for another semi-apology, “an interview with one patient may be enough. Who and what was it?”
“The patient is Lieutenant Braithwaite,” said Lioren. “About twenty minutes after we returned from the dining hall …”
“You dined together?” Gurronsevas broke in sharply. “This is exactly the kind of information I need. Can you remember which dishes you, or it, ordered? Tell me everything you can remember about the meal. Every detail.”
Lioren thought for a moment, then said, “Fortunately, perhaps, my selection was from the Tarlan menu, a single course of shemmutara with faas curds. You can see that I am not adventurous where food is concerned. I did not look closely at Braithwaite’s meal, or the codes it used while ordering, because the sight of most kinds of Earth food causes me internal uneasiness. We took only the main courses because it had a meeting with O’Mara directly after lunch. But I did notice that its platter contained a small, flat slab of synthetic meat, the stuff Earth-humans call steak, with several round, slightly toasted, yellow vegetables, and two other kinds of vegetation that looked like a heap of tiny green spheres and some pallid, round grey domes that looked particularly disgusting. There was a small dab of brownish-yellow, semi-solid material, possibly a condiment of some kind, at the edge of the plate. And, yes, a thick, brown liquid had been poured over the steak …”
Gurronsevas wondered what Lioren would have noticed if it had been looking closely. He said, “Did Braithwaite make any comment about the food, during or after eating the meal?”
“Yes,” said Lioren, “but there was nothing unusual about that. A few other beings, not Earth-humans, had ordered the same meal and commented on it in my hearing. Some of the warm-blooded oxy-breathers here are in the habit of crossing the species divide in search of new taste sensations, and the practice has increased since your menu changes were incorporated. This is highly complimentary to yourself, or has been until …”
“Just tell me what Braithwaite said,” Gurronsevas broke in. “Everything.”
“I am trying to remember,” said Lioren, with a Tarlan gesture that might have signified irritation. “Oh, yes. Braithwaite said that the meal had a peculiar, gritty taste, and that this was strange because it had ordered the same course on previous occasions without noticing anything odd about it. It also said that you were continually experimenting with the menu, that the latest change was probably an acquired taste, but if so, it was not masochistic enough to want to acquire it. The remainder of the meal was eaten quickly and silently because it did not want to be late for the meeting.
“On the way back to the department,” Lioren continued, “it complained of feeling what it called queasy, and self-diagnosed the trouble as a digestive upset caused by it eating too fast. The meeting a short time later, comprising O’Mara, Braithwaite and Cha Thrat, was concerned with the psych profiles of the latest group of trainees. Because department business was being discussed rather than a personal interview, the connecting door had not been closed. I heard but did not see all that ensued. Cha Thrat filled in the visual details later.”
Lioren made a series of small, untranslatable sounds, then cleared its breathing passages noisily and went on, “My apologies, Gurronsevas, this is not a laughing matter. Braithwaite began complaining of growing nausea, but answered Cha Thrat’s sympathetic questions about its condition with loud abuse, calling O’Mara and Cha Thrat names that are not in polite usage, after which it became creatively if unintentionally insubordinate towards the Major, and ended by regurgitating onto the printouts covering the desktop. Soon afterwards Braithwaite began to lose both coherency of speech and muscular coordination in its limbs, and O’Mara had it transferred to a ward for clinical investigation. By that time the wards were filling up with similar cases.
“That was forty-three hours ago. Even though all of the patients affected have shown an almost complete remission of symptoms, since then the Major has been spending as much time as possible with Braithwaite, trying to establish whether its assistant’s abnormal behavior was due to a new pathogen that has invaded and attacked the brain functions of those affected, which is the theory favored by the senior medical staff, or a side effect of food-poisoning which is the solution preferred by myself.
“If I am wrong it is better that you stay out of sight and, hopefully, beyond reach of the infection,” Lioren ended. “If I am right, then the Chief Psychologist will not be pleased with you.”
Nobody here is pleased with the Great Gurronsevas, he thought. At least, they do not stay pleased for long. He tried to fight against the wave of anger and disappointment that was sweeping over his mind by concentrating on what for him could only be a minor culinary puzzle.
“I will need to access the food service program,” he said briskly. “But do not concern yourself, it will not require giving my identity.”
Lioren’s description had enabled him to identify the suspect meal, and given a close estimate of the time that the infection — if that was what it was — had occurred. The number of all meals selected were listed and stored on a daily basis so as to indicate current demand and to facilitate re-ordering and withdrawal of the non-synthetic material from stores. Diners’ choices were subject to psychological factors — personal recommendations of an item by one’s friends, the latest eating fad, a new entry on the menu that everyone wanted to try — which ensured that the total number of any given meal ordered would vary from day to day. But he knew the day and the suspect course, and now the number he was looking for was being displayed. He was tapping in the list of ingredients and requesting their full biochemical analyses when suddenly Lioren moved closer to the display screen.