The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 707
"I don't know," he replied. "This isn't my area of expertise. But can we suppose that this universe was created as a prototype, an early model that requires modification and little fine-tuning from time to time. The intrusion of random supernatural events into a universe supposedly based on natural laws might be evidence of this tinkering. Thank God ... Oops, just a figure of speech, Padre ... it doesn't happen very often."
"If you believe that ..." the other began.
"I am not believing anything, Padre, just talking."
The Tarlan was silent for a moment, then it said, "If this universe is imperfect, that presupposes, eternity being what it is, without beginning or end, that there was, is, will be one that is perfect. Would you like to, ah, just talk about that for awhile?"
"I haven't had a chance to think it out properly," he replied, smiling, "so I am making it up as I go along. Unlike this universe, everything would be perfect. There would be no natural laws, because if they were present it would mean that it, too, had faults and was in need of tinkering. There would be no time, no space, no physical or mental restrictions so that every event that took place would be miraculous. I expect you, and the other believers living in this imperfect creation, would call it Heaven."
"Go on," said Lioren.
Hewlitt said, "The difficulty I and an awful lot of other people have with religions is that they do not adequately explain why there is so much evil, or more accurately, tragic accidents, natural disasters, and illness, gross misbehavior in individuals and groups toward each other and, in short, so much suffering in this universe. Living in an imperfect Creation would go a long way to explaining why these things happen especially when there is the expectation of moving to the perfected universe after death.
"This is a pretty heretical theory," Hewlitt ended. "I hope my irreverence hasn't offended you, Padre?"
"I agree," said Lioren. "Heretical and irreverent, but not entirely new to me. To do my work here I need a wide knowledge of the religious beliefs and practices of many worlds, and often the many religions practiced on a single world. I am reminded of the writings of an Earth-human theologian called Augustine who was in the habit of wondering aloud, but in reality asking polite but awkward questions of its God. One of the questions was 'What were You doing before You made the universe?' There is no record of this Augustine person ever receiving an answer, at least not during its lifetime on Earth, but you have taken the idea a stage further by suggesting that the Creator of All Things has produced a prototype which we are still inhabiting.
"I am not offended or even surprised, Patient Hewlitt," it went on. "Where other-species' religious beliefs are concerned, nothing surprises me. But the VTXM Telfi single entity I have been visiting these past few days came very close to doing so. It, they, share the belief that they were created in God's image, but that their omniscient and all-powerful Creator is composed of an infinite number of small, weak, and individually stupid entities like themselves who together make up a Supreme Being which one day they hope to join.
"For a species who evolved intelligence and a civilization," the Padre went on, "by linking together into a gestalt of individually specialized beings, it is understandable why they would believe such a thing. But I found it very difficult at first to understand or talk to it about the infinite number of persons that will make up its one God, or to give the spiritual consolation it needs. Of course, there are many religions which believe that there is a small part of God in every thinking creature ... Do you know anything about the Telfi?"
"A little," said Hewlitt, still trying to steer the other away from the subject of theology and, by association, miracles. "There was a brief entry in the nonmedical library's listing of Federation citizens. They operate in groups as contact telepaths to pool their mental and physical abilities. They live by absorbing the combination and varying intensities of hard radiation that bathes their home world, which circles very close to the parent sun. For travel off-planet their ship life-support radiation has to be reproduced artificially. Sometimes the environmental systems malfunction and, if they are lucky, they are rescued and end up here. But they are radiation-eaters, and no ordinary person could get close enough to them to talk and hope to go on living. Did you use a communicator or wear protective armor?"
"Thank you for the implication that I might be an extraordinary person," said the Padre. It made an untranslatable, Tarlan sound and went on, "But the answer to both questions is no. There is a fallacy among nonmedics that the Telfi cannot be closely approached or touched without the use of remotely controlled manipulators. To live they must absorb the radiation normally provided by their natural environment but when, for clinical reasons, the radiation is withdrawn for several days and they are weak from their equivalent of hunger, their radioactive emissions drop to a harmless level. When one of them was withdrawn from its treatment chamber during my visit, I was close enough to be able to touch it, which I did.
"That is one patient," Lioren ended, "who really needs a miracle."
It was obvious that the Padre felt sorry for the Telfi, and Hewlitt sympathized with its feelings, but the subject had returned to miracles. He decided to go on the offensive, as inoffensively as possible, and said, "If you are suggesting that I lay my hands on a Telfi, forget it. Surely the proper method of achieving a miracle is for you or the patient to pray for one. A miracle is supposed to be a supernatural occurrence, not something that is dependent on the cooperation of an unbelieving middleman. If you don't believe that. Padre, what do you believe?"
"I cannot tell you what I believe," said Lioren. "In the interests of the patients who might be unfairly influenced if I was to speak of my own beliefs, I am obliged not to divulge that information."
"But why?" said Hewlitt. "What possible difference could your personal beliefs make to an unbeliever?"
"I don't know," Lioren replied, "that's the problem. I have detailed knowledge of more than two hundred religions that are practiced, or more often not practiced, throughout the Federation. My function here is to listen sympathetically, to give reassurance, encouragement, or consolation to the terminally ill or seriously troubled patients in whatever way seems appropriate. Because of my background, which you must be aware of by now but are too polite to mention, then are always a few patients who want more than reassurance. In their distress they come to respect and trust me and, erroneously, to think that I know best. They want religious certainties which they think that I, with my wide knowledge and experience in dealing with their kind of problems, can provide. This I cannot do, because I must not take advantage of their confused and frightened state to compare one religion with another, or to suggest one which I think is the true one. No matter how wild and incredible some of their beliefs are, influencing an entity to change or even doubt its own religion, however small or temporary that change or doubt might be, is a responsibility I will not accept. I played God only once and I shall not do so ever again."
The Padre made another untranslatable sound and said, "I am particularly careful with unbelievers. It would be a terrible thing if some time in the future my words were to turn you toward religion."
"Now that," said Hewlitt, laughing, "would take a real miracle."
Lioren's reply was silenced by the sudden arrival of Leethveeschi, who gestured toward the ward entrance and said, "Patient Hewlitt, prepare yourself for visitors. Diagnosticians Thornnastor and Conway, Senior Physicians Medalont and Prilicla, and Pathologist Murchison are here to see you. With that collection of high-powered medical talent interesting themselves in your case, I do not foresee you remaining here as a patient for long. Padre Lioren, Prilicla apologizes for interrupting your conversation and asks if you would please distance yourself from the patient and wait with the others so that your presence will not interfere with its investigation."
"Of course," said Lioren.
He watched it move up the ward to join the group that was standing and, in one case, hovering about thirty meters away. He barely noticed Medalont and the Tralthan and Earth-human diagnosticians, Thornnastor and Conway, or even the mature but strikingly beautiful female Earth-human who had to be Pathologist Murchison, because all of his attention was focused on the enormous but incredibly fragile insect that was flying on three sets of slowly beating, iridescent wings toward him.
As it drifted to a halt above his bed and he felt the faint downdraft from its wings, Hewlitt remembered that he had always disliked insects, and the larger they were the more he wanted to swat them. But this one was the most delicate and beautiful creature he had ever seen. Even his tongue was paralyzed with wonder.
"Thank you, friend Hewlitt," it said, the quiet trilling and clicking sound of its speech forming an almost musical background to the translated words. "Your emotional radiation is pleasant and most complimentary. I am Prilicla."
"What," he said, finding both his voice and his anxiety again, "what exactly are you going to do to me?"
"I have already done all that is necessary, friend Hewlitt," it replied, "so there is no reason for your anxiety."
The others who had been waiting must have overheard it, because they were moving closer. When they had gathered around his bed, Prilicla raised its voice and went on, "At the present time there are no detectable abnormalities present in Patient Hewlitt's mind, nor were there during my earlier examination of Patient Morredeth, who should now be discharged and sent home without further delay. I feel the disappointment in all of you, naturally, and I am sorry. So far as I am concerned I can feel absolutely nothing wrong with the patient.
"Friend Hewlitt," it went on as it made a feather-light landing on the bottom of his bed, "how would you like a ride in an ambulance?"
He saw Prilicla's body begin to tremble and realized that the empath must be sharing his own feelings of anger and bitter disappointment, feelings that he had suffered so often in the past. He said, "Don't try to humor me, dammit! You think there's nothing wrong with me and you're going to send me home."
"Well, not exactly," said Prilicla. "This time the ambulance will be taking the patient from hospital to the scene of the original accident."
Chapter Sixteen
EVEN THOUGH his stay in Ward Seven had just about obliterated all traces of his xenophobia, Hewlitt was relieved to discover that on this particular ambulance the Earth-human DBDGs were in a majority of five to three.
During nonmedical operations, he learned, the special ambulance ship Rhabwar was commanded by a very serious young officer called Major Fletcher, while three other Monitor Corps lieutenants, Haslam, Chen, and Dodds, were responsible for communications, engineering, and astrogation, respectively. Since Hewlitt was not allowed to leave the casualty deck, he would have little contact with any of them or they with the medical team unless the ship was called to a medical emergency requiring their presence on the casualty deck. If that happened, command transferred to the team's senior medical officer, who turned out to be the empathic Cinrusskin GLNO Prilicla, until the emergency was resolved.
He had been surprised, and later, when he came to know her better, very pleased, to find that the empath's principal assistant was Pathologist Murchison. The remaining two medics were a Kelgian DBLF specialist in heavy rescue operations, Charge Nurse Naydrad, and Dr. Danalta, who was physiological classification TOBS and the most alien and, at times, familiar creature that Hewlitt had ever seen or expected to see.
Danalta was a polymorph who could make itself look like anything or anyone, and it loved to show off. But when it was the shape-changer's turn to watch over him, especially when he was expected to sleep and not talk, it sat on the deck by his bedside like a lumpy, green pear that was featureless except for the single, large eye and ear that it extruded for the purpose.
Except for the natural sleeping periods prescribed for Earth-human DBDG patients, he was not confined to bed.
During his first day on board, there was one very thorough physical examination, which included the withdrawal of tissue and blood specimens. While it was being done, the entire medical team stood and hovered around his bed, displaying a degree of readiness that was hair-raising in its implications while radiating a level of anxiety that even he could feel, in case he reacted in some clinically melodramatic fashion. Apart from that one examination nothing whatever was done for or to him and, because he had not reacted in any fashion whatever, they spent the next two days asking him endless questions while trying to avoid answering his.
Pathologist Murchison was a fellow Earth-human as well as being closer in personality and appearance to Hewlitt's idea of what a medical guardian angel should look like. The next time she was on Casualty watch, he tried to start a polite argument with her in the hope that she, at least, would let something slip that would tell him what they were planning to do with him.
Hewlitt knew that he did not have to control his irritation because Prilicla was resting in its cabin and out of empathic range. He began, "Everyone seems to be asking me the same questions that Medalont and all my other doctors have already asked many times, and I am giving the same answers. I'd like to help if I can, but how? You won't answer questions or tell me anything at all about my condition. What do you think is wrong with me, and why won't you tell me what you are trying to do about it?"
The pathologist swung around in her seat at the diagnostic console and looked away from its big viewscreen, which had been displaying a succession of still images that resembled the top surfaces of slabs of pink and purple-veined marble, but were more likely to be sections of other-species tissue with something nasty wrong with them. Maybe, Hewlitt thought, she had been expecting the pictures to bore him to sleep.
She gave a long sigh, and said, "This information would have been given to you during the post-landing briefing tomorrow but, seeing that there has been no change in your clinical condition over the past three days, there is no good reason for keeping it from you until then. You will not like the answers I give you because ..."
"Is, is it bad news?" he broke in. "I'd rather know the worst. I think."
"If you want answers," she said, "don't interrupt. This is embarrassing for me as it is."
Embarrassing for you, Hewlitt thought. He said, "I'm sorry, please go on."
She nodded, then said, "It is not good news, or bad news, it is no news. First, we kept asking the same questions in the hope that you would tell us something new, something you omitted to tell Medalont or the others, something that we can believe and act upon. According to Prilicla, your emotional radiation indicates that you are not consciously lying, but the truth you are telling us is not helpful at all. Your second question, what is wrong with you. Well, so far as we have been able to discover, you are not only well, you are an unusually fit and healthy specimen of an Earth-human male DBDG. The answer is that nothing is wrong with you."
She took a deep breath that expanded the spectacular chest inside her tight, white coveralls, further reminding him that he was a healthy male, and went on, "That being the case, Patient Hewlitt, we should declare you a healthy hypochondriac with psychological problems and tell you to go home and stop wasting our time as many of your other medics have done in the past ..."
She held up one small, well-formed hand and said, "No, don't elevate your blood pressure, we aren't going to do that. At least, not until we have found an explanation for your strange early case history and the more recent regeneration of Morredeth's damaged fur, which may or may not be related. We are hoping to find the relationship, if there is one, on Etla. That is where the initial strange occurrences took place, and where your help, advice, and memories of those early episodes will be much appreciated during the investigation.
"So the answer to your third question," she ended, smiling, "is that we don't know what to do with you."
"I'd be pleased to help," Hewlitt said, "but my childhood memories might not be accurate enough for your purpose. Have you thought of that?"
"According to the Psychology Department," she replied, "your memory is like everything else about you, well-nigh perfect. Now, Patient Hewlitt, will you please go to sleep and let me work."
"I'll try," he said. "What are you doing?"
She sighed again and said, "Among other things I am comparing a series of enlarged scanner visuals of DBDG and other-species brains, including your own, in the hope of finding a structural variation or abnormality that might explain how you were able to do some of the things you have done, if it was you and not another as yet unidentified agency that was responsible. I don't really expect to find evidence of a faculty that enables its possessor to perform miracles, but I have to try. Now go to sleep."
A few minutes later she went on, "Are you sure you have told us everything? Were there any incidents, so minor or trivial that you didn't think they were worth mentioning, like the episode with your teeth, for example, while you were a child or adult? How about contacts with people who were ill, either at home or in your working environment? For some reason the case notes make no mention of your profession or occupation. Did you have any contacts with animals, other than your kitten, that might have been ill or recently recovered from an illness, or were there any other ..."
"Do you mean my sheep?" said Hewlitt.
"I might mean your sheep," said Murchison. "Tell me about it."
"Them," he corrected.
"You're a shepherd?" she said. "I didn't think they had shepherds these days. Go on."
"I'm not and they do," he said. "Sheepherding is a rare, specialized, and very well paid job, especially when they work for me. I inherited the family business from my grandparents, because my father was the only son and he preferred a career in the space service. When he died in the flyer crash, well, I was the last Hewlitt. The case notes didn't mention my job because nearly everyone on Earth knew who I was and what I did.
"I run Hewlitt the Tailor."
"And I have the feeling that I should be impressed," said Murchison. "Sorry, but I wasn't born on Earth."
