The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 201
He passed a view-port and took a quick look outside. It reminded him of a cloud of angry fireflies. The stanchion he was gripping slapped his hand, telling him that another missile had struck not too far away.
There were two Tralthans, a Nidian and a space-suited QCQL in the antechamber when he arrived as well as the ever present Corpsmen. The Nidian explained that a Tralthan ship had been nearly pulled apart by enemy rattlers but that many of its crew had survived. The tractor beams mounted on Sector General itself had whisked the damaged vessel down to the lock and ...
The Nidian began to bark at him.
"Stop that!" said Conway irritably.
The Nidian looked startled, then it started to bark again. A few seconds later the Tralthan nurses came over and began to deafen him with their modulated fog-horn blasts, and the QCQL was whistling at him through its suit radio. The Corpsmen, engrossed in bringing the casualties through the boarding tube, were merely looking puzzled. Suddenly Conway began to sweat.
They had been hit again, but because he had not been holding onto anything he had not felt it—but he knew exactly where they had been hit. Conway fumbled with his Translator, rapped it sharply with his knuckles—a completely futile gesture—and kicked himself toward the intercom.
On every circuit he tried things howled and trumpeted and moaned and made gutteral barking sounds, a mad cacaphony that set Conway's teeth on edge. A picture of the theater he had just left flashed before his mind, with Murchison and the Tralthan and the Kelgian doctor working on that casualty and not one of them knowing what the other was saying. Instructions, vital directions, demands for instruments or information on the patient's condition—all would be given in an alien gabble incomprehensible to the theater staff. He was seeing the picture repeated all over the hospital. Only beings of the same species could make themselves understood to each other, and even that did not hold true in every case. There were Earth-humans who did not speak Universal, who spoke languages native to areas on their home planets and who had to rely on Translators even when speaking to other Earth-humans ...
From the alien babel Conway's straining ears were able to isolate words and a voice which he could understand. It was intelligence battling through a high level of background noise, and all at once his ears seemed to tune out the static and hear only the voice, the voice which was saying, "... Three torps playing follow-my-leader, sir. They blasted a way right through. We can't jury-rig a Translator, there's nothing of it left to do it with. The last torp went off inside the computer room ..."
Outside the intercom niche the e-t nurses were whistling and growling and moaning at him and at each other. He should be giving instructions for the preliminary examination of his casualties, arranging for ward accommodation, checking on the readiness of the FGLI theater. But he could not do any of these things because his nursing staff would not understand a word he said.
Chapter Nineteen
FOR A long time, although it might have only been a few seconds, Conway could not bring himself to leave the alcove which contained the intercom unit, and the Chief Psychologist would have been clinically concerned about the thoughts which were going through his mind just then. But slowly he fought down the panic that made him want to run away and hide somewhere, by reminding himself savagely that there was nowhere to run to and by forcing himself to look at the FGLIs drifting about in the antechamber. The place was literally filled with them.
Conway himself knew only the rudiments of Tralthan physiology, but that was the least of his worries because he could easily take an FGLI tape. What he had to do was to start things moving for them now. But it was hard to think of each other and the Corpsmen shouting to know what was the matter and the casualties, many of whom were conscious, making pitiful, frantic noises that were muffled only slightly by their pressure envelopes.
"Sergeant!" Conway bawled suddenly at the senior orderly, waving at the casualties. "Ward Four-B, Two-Hundred and Seventh level. Know where it is?"
The NCO bobbed his head, and Conway turned to the nurses.
He got nowhere with the Nidian and QCQL despite all his efforts at sign language, and it was only when he wrapped his legs around one of the FGLI's forelimbs and by brute force twisted the appendage containing its visual equipment until the cluster of eyes pointed at where the casualities were going that he got anywhere at all. Finally he made the Tralthans understand—he hoped—that they were to accompany the injured and do what they could for them when they arrived.
Four-B had been given over almost entirely to FGLI casualties and most of the staff were Tralthan also, which meant that some of the patients could be reassured by nurses speaking their own language. Conway refused to think of the other casualties who did not have this advantage. He had been assigned Thornnastor's wards. One thing at a time.
When he reached O'Mara's office the Major wasn't there. Carrington, one of his assistants, explained that O'Mara was busy trying to match up patients and staff into species wherever possible, and that he wanted to see Conway immediately the Doctor was finished in the Tralthan wards. Carrington added that as communications were either dead or tied up with e-ts yelling gibberish at each other would he mind either reporting back here or remaining where he was so that the Major could find him. Ten minutes later Conway had the tape he wanted and was on his way to Four-B.
He had taken FGLI tapes before and they weren't too bad. There was a tendency for him to feel awkward at having to walk on only two feet instead of six, and he wanted to move his head and neck about to follow moving objects instead of merely swiveling his eyes. But it was not until he reached the ward that he realized how fully his Tralthan mind partner had settled in. The rows of Tralthan patients became his most immediate and pressing concern, while only a small part of his mind was engaged with the problem of the Tralthan nurses who were obviously close to panic and whose words, for some odd reason, he could not understand. For the Earth-human nurses—puny, shapeless and unlovely bags of dough—he felt only impatience.
Conway went over to the group of shapeless and unlovely bags, although to the human portion of his mind a couple of them looked very shapely indeed, and said, "Give me your attention, please. I have a Tralthan tape which will enable me to treat these FGLIs, but the Translator breakdown means I can't talk to them or the Tralthan staff. You girls will have to help with the preliminary examinations and in the theater."
They were all staring at him and losing their fear at being told what to do again by someone in authority, even though they were being told to do the impossible. There were forty-seven FGLI patients in the ward, which included eight new arrivals needing immediate attention. There were only three Earth-human nurses.
"The FGLI staff and yourselves can't talk now," he went on after a moment's hesitation, "but you use the same system of medical notation. Some method of communication can be worked out. It will be slow and roundabout, of course, but you must let them know what we are doing and get their help.
"Wave your arms," he ended, "draw pictures. Above all, use your pretty little heads."
Soft soap at a time like this, he thought ashamedly. But it was all he could think of at the moment, he wasn't a psychologist like O'Mara ...
He had dealt with four of the most urgent cases when Mannen arrived with another FGLI in a stretcher held to the floor with magnets. The patient was Thornnastor and it was immediately obvious that the Diagnostician would be immobilized for a long time to come.
Mannen gave details of Thornnastor's injuries and what he had done about them, then went on, "... Seeing that you have the monopoly on Tralthans you'd better handle its post-op nursing. And this is the sanest and quietest ward in the hospital, dammit. What's your secret? Boyish charm, a bright idea, or have you access to a bootleg Translator?"
Conway explained what he was trying to do about the mixed species nurses.
"Ordinarily I don't hold with nurses and doctors passing notes during an op," Mannen said. His face was gray with fatigue, his attempt at humor little more than a conditioned reflex. "But it seemed to work for you. I'll pass the idea on."
They maneuverd Thornnastor's vast body into one of the padded frameworks used as beds for FGLIs in weightless conditions, then Mannen said, "I've got an FGLI tape, too. Needed it for Thorny, here. Now I've got two QCQLs lined up. Didn't know there was any such beastie until today, but O'Mara has the tape. It's a suit job, that gunk they breathe would kill anything that walks, crawls or flies, excluding them. They're both conscious, too, and I can't talk to them. I can see I'm going to have fun."
Suddenly his shoulders drooped and the muscles holding up the corners of his mouth gave up the fight. He said dully, "I wish you'd think of something, Conway. In wards like this where the patients and some nurses are of the same classification it isn't too bad. Relatively, that is. But other places where the casualties and staff are completely mixed, and where singletons among the e-t staff have become casualties in the bombardment, things are rough."
Conway had heard the bombardment, a continuous and irregular series of crashes that had been transmitted through the metal of the hospital as if someone was beating on a discordant gong. He had heard them and tried not to think about them, for he knew that the staff were becoming casualties and the casualties that the staff had been taking care of were becoming casualties twice over.
"I can imagine," Conway said grimly. "But with Thornnastor's wards to look after I've plenty to do—"
"Everybody has plenty to do!" Mannen said sharply, "but someone will have to come up with something quick!"
What do you want me to do about it? Conway thought angrily at Mannen's receding back, then he turned to his next patient.
For the past few hours something distinctly odd had been happening in Conway's mind. It had begun with an increasingly strong feeling that he almost knew what the Tralthan nurses in the ward were saying. This he put down to the fact that the FGLI tape he had taken—the complete memory record of an eminent physiologist of that race—had given him a lot of data on Tralthan attitudes and expressions and tones of voice. He had never noticed the effect before—probably, he supposed, because he had never had to deal with so many Tralthans in so short a time before, and he had always had a Translator anyway. But working with mainly Tralthan patients had caused the FGLI recorded personality to gain greater than usual prominence at the expense of the human personality.
There was no struggle for possession of his mind, no conflict in the process. It happened naturally because he was being forced to do so much FGLI type thinking. When he did have occasion to speak to an Earth-human nurse or patient, he had to concentrate hard if the first few words they spoke were not to sound like gibberish to him.
And now he was beginning to hear and understand Tralthan talking.
It was far from perfect, of course. For one thing the elephantine hootings and trumpetings were being filtered through human rather than Tralthan ears to the FGLI within his mind, and suffered distortion and change of pitch accordingly. The words tended to be muffled and growly, but he did get some of them, which meant that he possessed a Translator of sorts. It was a strictly one-way affair, of course. Or was it?
When he was preparing the next case for the theater he decided to try talking back.
His FGLI alter ego knew how the words should sound, he knew how to work his own vocal cords, and the Earth-human voice was reputed to be one of the most versatile instruments in the Galaxy. Conway took a deep breath and gave forth.
The first attempt was disastrous. It ended in an uncontrollable fit of coughing on his part and spread alarm and consternation for the length and breadth of the ward. But with the third attempt he got through—one of the Tralthan nurses answered him! After that it was just a matter of time until he had enough of the more important directions off pat, and subsequent operations proceeded more quickly, efficiently and with enormously increased chances for the patient.
The Earth-human nurses were greatly impressed by the odd noises issuing from Conway's overworked throat. At the same time they seemed to see an element of humor in the situation ...
"Well, well," said a familiar, irascible voice behind him, "a ward full of happy, smiling patients, with the Good Doctor keeping up morale by doing animal impressions. What the blazes do you think you're doing?"
O'Mara, Conway saw with a shock, was really angry—not just playing his usual, short-tempered self. In the circumstances it would be better to answer the question and ignore the rhetoric.
"I'm looking after Thornnastor's patients, plus some new arrivals," Conway said quietly. "The Corpsmen and FGLI patients have been taken care of, and I was about to ask you for a DBLF tape for the Kelgians who have just come in."
O'Mara snorted. "I'll send down a Kelgian doctor to take care of that," he said angrily, "and your nurses can take care of the others for the time being. You don't seem to realize that this is one level out of three-hundred eighty-four, Doctor Conway. That there are ward patients urgently in need of the simplest treatment or medication, and they won't get it because the staff concerned whistle while they cheep. That the casualties are piling up around the locks, some of them in corridors which have been opened to space. Those pressure litters won't supply air forever, you know, and the people in them can't be feeling very happy ..."
"What do you want me to do?" said Conway.
For some reason this made O'Mara angrier. He said bitingly, "I don't know, Doctor Conway. I am a psychologist. I can no longer act effectively because most of my patients no longer speak the same language. Those who do I've tried to chivvy into thinking of something to get us out of this mess. But they're all too busy treating the sick in their own neighborhood to think of the hospital as a whole. They want to leave it to the Big Brains ..."
"In these circumstances," Conway put in, "a Diagnostician seems to be the logical person to come up with a bright idea."
O'Mara's anger was being explained, Conway thought. It must be pretty frustrating for a psychologist who could neither listen or talk to his patients. But the anger seemed almost personal, as if Conway himself had fallen down on the job in some fashion.
"Thornnastor is out of the picture," O'Mara said, lowering his voice slightly. "You were probably too busy to know that the other two Diagnosticians who stayed behind were killed earlier today. Among the Senior Physicians, Harkness, Irkultis, Mannen—"
"Mannen! Is he ...?"
"I thought you might have known about him," O'Mara said almost gently, "since it happened just two levels away. He was working on two QCQLs when the theater was opened up. A piece of flying metal ruptured his suit. He's decompressed, and before that poison they use for air escaped completely he breathed some of it. But he'll live."
Conway found that he had been holding his breath. He said, "I'm glad."
"Me, too," said O'Mara gruffly. "But what I started to say was that there are no Diagnosticians left and no Senior Physicians other than yourself, and the place is in a mess. As the senior surviving medical officer in the hospital, what do you plan to do about it?"
He stood watching Conway, and waiting.
Chapter Twenty
CONWAY had thought that nothing could make him feel worse than the realization some hours previously that the Translator system had broken down. He didn't want this responsibility, the very thought of it scared him to death. Yet there had been times when he'd dreamed of being Sector General's director and having absolute control over all things medical within the gigantic organization. But in those dreams the hospital had not been a dying, war-torn behemoth that was virtually paralyzed by the breakdown of communications between its separate and vital organs, nor had it bristled with death-dealing weapons, nor had it been criminally understaffed and horribly overcrowded with patients.
Probably these were the only circumstances which would allow someone like himself to become Director of a hospital like this, Conway told himself sadly. He wasn't the best available, he was the only one available. Even so it gave him a quite indescribable feeling, compounded of fear, anger and pride, that he was to be its head for the remaining days or weeks of its life.
Conway gave a quick look around his ward, at the orderly if uneven rows of Tralthan and Earth-human beds and at the quietly efficient staff. He had made it this way. But he was beginning to see that he had been hiding himself down here, that he had been running away from his responsibilities.
"I do have an idea," he said suddenly to O'Mara. "It isn't a good idea, and I think we ought to go to your office to talk about it, because you'll probably object to it, loudly, and that might disturb the patients."
O'Mara looked at him sharply. When he spoke the anger had gone from his voice so that it was merely normally sarcastic again. He said, "I find all your ideas objectionable, Doctor. It's because I've got such an orderly mind."
On the way to O'Mara's office they passed a group of high-ranking Monitor officers and the Major told him that they were part of Dermod's staff who were preparing to shift tactical command into the hospital. At the moment Dermod was commanding from Vespasian. But even the capital ships were taking a beating now, and the fleet commander had already had Domitian not quite shot from under him ...
When they arrived Conway said, "It isn't such a hot idea, and seeing those Corpsmen on the way up here has given me a better one. Suppose we ask Dermod to let us use his ship Translators ...?"
O'Mara shook his head. "It won't work," he said. "I thought of that idea, too. It seems the only Translator computers of any use to us are on the big ships, and they are such an integral part of the structure that it would practically wreck the ship to take one out. Besides, for our absolute minimum needs we would require twenty capital ship computers. We haven't got twenty capital ships left, and what we do have Dermod says he has a much better use for.
"Now what was your other not very good idea?"
Conway told him.
