"Memo pocket?" the Facilitator asked.
Complacently, the Proctor touched the spot in his armor where the skull reached the edge of the platen, where his kind inserted data disks to help them with their technological works. "Humans do not possess our natural ganglionic loci, Younger Brother," he explained. "So in order for them to use the memo disks, they have to have one created surgically. That was the first great challenge our anatomists faced, but, fortunately, the specimens our first scouts acquired gave us a good deal of experimental material."
"I do know about the specimens that were collected, Elder Brother," the Facilitator said, wishing the Proctor would get on with it. "Some still exist, I believe."
"I am not speaking of the surviving specimens. I am speaking of those specimens which were too severely damaged for reanimation when acquired by our scouts. By dissecting them, our anatomists learned how to implant memory chips in humans. After that it was simple to perform various kinds of surgery that were beyond the skills of the humans themselves. That is what this hospital is for."
The Facilitator groaned, but not aloud. There was simply no stopping this Elder Brother. The Facilitator had not journeyed all the way from home without cramming his very large and able brain with every fact he could find about his new posting. Humans had possessed only explosive-propelled spaceships and knew nothing of the wave-drive? Of course. Only the Brotherhood had waveships—well, the Brotherhood and that one other galactic race that was best forgotten. The orbital tower that was their elevator to space? Naturally the Brotherhood had made it a high priority to install one as quickly as possible. How else could you carry on large-scale interstellar business?
He raised one scaled claw, hoping against hope to cut off the flow of educational lecture. "One thing I do not understand, Elder Brother," he said humbly. "What is it about these humans that amused you?"
The Proctor turned both eyes on him. "It is simply that they love us so," he said, gazing down affectionately at the human. "Do you see this thing on his arm? It is called a 'tattoo.' He has decorated his skin with this picture which he believes resembles one of us."
"It is a very poor likeness," the Facilitator complained, darting both eyes at the faded lines of the drawing.
"Oh, it is not really of one of our Brotherhood. The tattoo depicts an Earthly beast which is called 'turtle.'" Of course, his vocal cords made a hash of the human word. "It is what they call us, the 'Turtles.'"
The Facilitator was scandalized. "They are so offensive that they name us after a dumb beast?"
"You do not understand," the Proctor sighed. "Humans have an old tale in their religious lore which speaks of a race between a 'turtle' and a 'hare.' Although the hare can run much faster, it was the turtle which won the race—so, you see, it is a term of respect."
"If the Elder Brother says so," the Facilitator grumbled.
"I do say so. Don't you see? We win the race, in spite of everything," the Proctor said proudly. "We always do."
"Always," agreed the Facilitator, happy to have something to agree with the Proctor on. The Brotherhood always did win. In every contest they ventured to undertake. Or some members of the Brotherhood did, at least. . . .
And it was the Facilitator's fervent intention to be the one who conquered in the next, and most important, one.
At least now they were moving again, the Proctor leading the way. He said, "There are several complex surgical operations now in progress—they come from all over to be helped by the procedures we have brought to their planet. Come, we will observe one of them."
Unwillingly the Facilitator trailed the Elder Brother to what was called an "operating room." He observed a cluster of humans in white, green and lilac robes surrounding a table where another human lay. Then he took a closer look. "But those are humans performing this operation," he said. "Did the Elder Brother not say that this hospital was reserved for cases so difficult that only the skills of the Brotherhood made them possible?"
The Proctor nodded reluctant approval. "You are quick to observe, at least," he said grudgingly. "Yes, those are human surgeons, but the skills they use are those of the Brotherhood. Note the memo disks in their skulls. They are needed, because this is indeed a particularly difficult operation." He turned one eye expectantly on the Facilitator. "Observe the patient. Do you notice anything strange?"
The Facilitator studied the subject, then waved an arm negatively. "What should I notice?"
"It is a femalethe Proctor said gleefully. "Half of the humans are female!"
The Facilitator shuddered; the thought of an intelligent race with more than one active female was vaguely repellent, though he had been taught to expect this. "What is wrong with her?"
The Proctor said, "She is 'pregnant.' It is her unborn young that need attention. These creatures bear their young live, like Taurs, and sometimes things go wrong. In this case, she has two young ones developing inside her, but they are malformed. It is what humans call 'Siamese twins.' They are joined at the brain."
"At the brain!"
"Yes," said the Proctor with pride, "but with our memo disk the surgeon will be able to separate them in utero and they will develop normally. That is why she has come here from one of their cities."
"Cities," the Facilitator repeated, shuddering. "Disgusting!"
The Proctor said fairly, "Even the humans find their cities unlivable, with all their noise and dirt. Therefore it is a good place for us to secure memmie helpers—especially when, like this one, they are in difficulties."
The Facilitator said impatiently, "Why do we trouble with such things? Why not let them deal with it themselves?"
"Oh, Facilitator," the Proctor said in dismay, "have they taught you nothing? It is because we do things for these humans that our relations are so successful. We have given them so many things: machines, medical techniques, the Taurs for servants and food, the redfruit to replace their native vegetation, the opening to space through our ladder. These things are our trading stock! We can show the humans that our technology is better than theirs, and in that way cause them to give up their heretical notions."
The Younger Brother squinted up at his superior. "What heretical notions?"
"Fantastic distortion of the Mother's truth," the Proctor told him somberly, "woven into the pseudosciences they call 'physics' and 'astronomy'—that is," he explained, "their own weird ideas of the stars."
The Facilitator was astonished. "What do these beasts know about the stars?"
"They are not really beasts," the Proctor acknowledged justly. "But they do have strangely mistaken notions. Even blasphemous violations of the Mother's laws. Notions of such strange things as multiple dimensions in space-time, as they call it, and something they call 'quantum reality.'"
The Facilitator shuddered. "We must stamp that out!"
"Indeed yes. That program has already begun. Ultimately these heresies will die away, along with those other nasty customs of these humans, like 'nations' and wars."
The Facilitator sighed. "But this will take a long time," he said dismally.
"Oh, no doubt," said the Proctor, at last beginning to feel at ease. "But you have the time. And now," he said, beaming, "I think you have all the indoctrination you need. Now you can take up your duties and I—I will spend the rest of my duty tour in the orbital station, far from this damp, miserable surface!"
The aiodoi seldom sing of twentieth-century Earth humans, but among those humans is a scientist. This scientist does not know that he is also an aiodos. Nevertheless, at times he sings most poetically to his students, like any aiodos. Then in his songs are certain things the aiodoi also sing:
"Now, pay attention, class, because we're going to try to understand what Stephen Hawking means when he says he no longer believes in the Big Bang.