The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 728
Craythorne was still holding his eyes as he said quietly, "Joining the Corps is the only option, O'Mara, if you wish to remain in Sector General. I know you well enough to feel sure that, faced with the prospect of leaving, you will exert a considerable amount of self-control in order to remain here. Right?"
O'Mara swallowed and for a moment he couldn't speak. The thought of leaving the hospital, with its nice or normally nasty construction crews and its increasingly weird intake of doctors and medical trainees, to return to the space construction gangs whose brains, if not actually dead, had never been given the opportunity to live, was too terrible to contemplate. He was beginning to develop a proprietary, almost a parental interest in the place and its people, and he knew that being forced to leave it would hurt more than anything in his short and already hurt-filled life.
But as a Corpsman O'Mara didn't know if he was capable of that much self-control.
"I thought so," said the major. He gave O'Mara a brief, sympathetic smile of encouragement and went on, "For your information, the construction of the hospital is within a few weeks of completion and the civil contractors and their people are rapidly being phased out. Henceforth the Monitor Corps will be wholly responsible for all aspects of supply, maintenance, power requirements, supply logistics, catering, and so on. The only civilians here will be the medical staff, which is why, considering your lack of formal medical training, you have no choice but to be one of us. To stay here you must be a medic or a member of the Corps. I'm not breaking any rules, because for this place they haven't been written yet; I'm just bending them a little.
"As the ranking officer on site," Craythorne went on, his smile broadening, "I have applied for and received permission to waive the usual basic-training procedures. I can't imagine you ever needing to know about space ordnance or riot-control weapons here, so you are joining us as a specialist in other-species psychology and will continue with the work you are doing now. You will not have to worry about junior NCOs telling you what to do, although it might be a good idea to listen to their advice if or when they give it ..."
The major sat back in his chair, his face becoming politely stern.
"... but you will, however, obey orders," he went on. "Especially mine. The first one is to clean up and call on Maintenance Technician Wenalont on Level Fifty-One, Room Eighteen. It has already altered the issue uniforms and kit to your measurements, which it has had for the past two weeks, and reports them ready for fitting." He glanced at his watch. "Then at fifteen hundred hours precisely I want you back here for an important technical briefing from a medical VIP, and looking and smelling a lot more presentable. It will be a long session so don't skip lunch."
O'Mara's mind and tongue were still paralyzed by surprise. He nodded wordlessly and turned to go. Craythorne wrapped a knuckle gently against the top of his desk.
"And if I ever hear of you cleaning latrines again," he added, "you and your service career will both be terminated on the spot. Do you understand me, Lieutenant O'Mara?"
On the way to Level Fifty-One the main corridors were clear of major obstructions and, he noticed since the major had drawn his attention to the reason for it, the remaining equipment-installation jobs were being done by people in Monitor green coveralls while the only civilians he passed were wearing medical insignia and whites if they were wearing anything at all. He was already worrying about what exactly he should say and how he should say it to this Wenalont character, but in the event it was the other who did all the talking.
"I am Technical Sergeant Wenalont, sir," it said briskly. "As a Melfan I haven't much use for clothing, since my exoskeleton is impervious to all but the most severe climatic changes, but my hobby is tailoring and the fitting of wearing apparel to weird and unusual body configurations. No offense is intended, I meant weird and unusual to me. We will begin from the epidermis out, with the undergarment and the tubular coverings for the feet and lower legs. Please strip off, sir."
I'm not supposed to take orders from NCOs, thought O'Mara, feeling his face growing warm. But then, he told himself, if they were preceded by "please" and he was called "sir" it was not technically an order.
"Now we will fit the outer garments," the sergeant went on a few moments later, "that is, the coveralls which serve as the working uniform, and the uniform proper. Once I have ensured that the fit is smart and comfortable, duplicates of all these garments will be sent to your new quarters on the officers' level ..."
He felt Wenalont's hard, bony wrists against the sides of his head as it pulled, settled, and straightened each garment onto his shoulders and neck. It never stopped talking about fastenings, insignia, and the types and proper positioning of antigravity or weapons belts and equipment harness. Then suddenly it was over. The sergeant grasped him firmly by the upper arms and rotated him to face the full-length mirror.
The man looking back at him was dressed in the full, dark-green uniform with the Monitor Corps crest glittering on the collar and the insignia of rank and space service emblem decorating the shoulder tabs, one of which retained his neatly folded beret. O'Mara had expected the sight to make him feel ridiculous. He didn't know how he felt exactly, but ridiculous was not one of the feelings.
He wondered if his sudden surge of mixed feelings was due to the fact that for the first time in his life as a quarrelsome, intellectually frustrated, and friendless loner he had become, without changing these characteristics one bit, a person who belonged to something. He dragged his mind back to the sergeant, who was talking again.
"The fit, sir," said Wenalont, moving around and staring him up and down with its large, insectile eyes, "is very good, neat without being constricting. You are unusually large and heavily muscled for an Earth-human male. If you were to appear dressed like that in the dining hall, I feel sure that the Earth-human females on the medical staff would be greatly impressed. But may I offer a word of advice, sir?"
The idea of him trying to impress female medics was so ridiculous that he almost laughed out loud. Instead he tried to be polite, as he thought Major Craythorne would have liked him to be, and said, "Please do."
"It is regarding service dress protocol and saluting," the sergeant went on. "In the space service we do not go in much for the exchange of such compliments because of the restricted living and working environment. As well, by the nature of things there are many fewer officers than there are other ranks, so that their subordinates would have to salute them perhaps three or four times a day while they would have to return these compliments hundreds of times a day, which can be time-wasting, irritating, and physically tiring for the officer concerned. As a simple verbal expression of respect, the word 'sir' or its other-species equivalent, and the wearing of issue coveralls with appropriate insignia patches, is considered acceptable. The only exception is during occasions such as inspections or visits by high-ranking Corps officers or government officials when the full uniform must be worn and all the military courtesies performed.
"I hope you aren't disappointed, sir," the sergeant went on, "but if you were to go to lunch in full uniform instead of coveralls, every subordinate you met or passed would stop whatever they were doing to exchange salutes with you, so that you would need to eat one-handed. But if that is what you desire—"
"No!" O'Mara broke in, and then for the first time in many years he laughed out loud. "I'm relieved, not disappointed. And, well, thank you for your help and advice, Sergeant. Unless you need me for anything else, I'll change into coveralls again at once because I'm pushed for time."
"A moment before you change," said the other. "My congratulations on your commission, sir."
One of the sergeant's long, shiny, sticklike and multi-jointed forelimbs swept out sideways and upward to come to a rigid halt beside its head and, for the first time in his life, O'Mara found himself returning a salute.
He did not have to undergo the embarrassing experience again, even though the dining hall for warm-blooded oxygen-breathers was crowded with Corps and medical personnel. His crisp new coveralls with their bright, painfully clean patches denoting his rank and departmental insignia, O'Mara was relieved to find, aroused no comment or even notice. During dessert he was joined by a trainee nurse who had asked politely to take the empty place at his table, but as it was a Tralthan with four times his body mass and six elephantine feet, he doubted that it had been attracted by his uniform.
Chapter Nine
EVEN THOUGH the operating theater's occupants were all warmblooded oxygen-breathers, it was clear that the atmosphere of stress and tension in the place could have been cut with a blunt scalpel. The bony features of the Melfan surgeon in charge of the team were incapable of registering any expression, as was the domelike head of its massive Tralthan assistant, but the mobile fur of the Kelgian anesthetist was twitching and tufting violently. The only person in the room who looked composed was the Earth-human who was the deeply unconscious patient.
The Melfan raised a forelimb and clicked its pincers together for attention.
"I should have no need to remind you of how important the next twenty minutes are to the future of other-species surgery," it said with a glance toward the overhead vision recorder, "or that this is considered to be one of the simplest procedures that are performed routinely in many thousands of hospitals throughout the patient's home planet and on other Earth-seeded colony worlds. The diagnosis has been confirmed as a clinical condition which, due to the patient's delay in reaching hospital, has become life-threatening and requires immediate surgery. Are we all ready? Then let's have it out."
The blade of the scalpel, its handle designed to fit precisely the Melfan pincer, flashed brightly as it caught the overhead lighting; then the reflection became pink-tinged as it made a longitudinal incision in the right lower quadrant of the abdomen.
"Normally a shorter incision would suffice," said the Melfan, "but we're not trying to impress anyone with the minimal size and neatness of the work here. This is strange country to all of us and I want to give myself room to look around. Ah, there is a thick layer of adipose tissue overlying the musculature, we'll have to go deeper. Control that bleeding, please. Quickly, Doctor. Clear the operative field, I can't see what I'm doing."
There was a low, faintly derisive sound as the delicate tips of two of the Tralthan assistant's tentacles holding the suction instrument moved in from the side briefly before withdrawing again a few seconds later to reveal the upper surface of the ascending colon at the bottom of the shallow, red device that was the wound.
"Thank you," said the Melfan surgeon, laying aside the scalpel. "Now we will tie off and excise the ... Where the hell is it?"
"I don't see it, either, sir," said the Tralthan. "Could it be attached to the underside of the colon or—"
"We've studied the anatomy of this life-form closely for a week," the Melfan broke in, "so we shouldn't have to do this. Oh, very well. Library, display physiological classification DBDG, abdominal area, Earth-human male. Highlight position of the appendix."
A few seconds later the large wall screen facing them lit up with the requested picture, the lower end of the ascending colon and the appendix projecting downward from it enclosed by a circle of red light.
"That's where it is," said the Melfan, pointing with its free pincer at the outlined area, "and that is where we went in. But it isn't here."
"Sir," said its assistant, "the literature suggested that on Earth-humans this could be the simplest of all surgical procedures lasting only a few minutes, or one that can be taxing, difficult, and lengthy. This is because, and I may be quoting inaccurately from memory, the normally healthy organ, which is thinner than a digit and only two to eight inches in length, when diseased, inflamed, and filled with pus can be enlarged to many times that size. If this happens, the organ is very mobile and may grow toward one of a number of other organs within the abdominal cavity, so that the patient's symptoms appear to involve a different organ. I'm still quoting from memory, but this can make an accurate diagnosis difficult. Is it possible that the case has been misdiagnosed?"
Without looking up, the Melfan said, "I am constantly referring to the same memories, Doctor. But what a stupid set of internal plumbing these Earth-human DBDGs have. One wonders how their species was able to survive and evolve intelligence. But no, for now we will assume that the diagnosis was correct. My problem, that whether the appendix is short and thin or lengthy, greatly distended, and growing into another area, or has perhaps become entangled with the small intestine, is that I can't find either it or its attachment point to the bowel. Suggestions would be welcome, Doctor."
There was a long pause before its assistant said, "I realize that it doesn't appear to be either diseased or inflamed, but is it possible that the short length of organ visible to us is, in fact, a part of the distended appendix rather than the bowel? After all, it is in the correct position."
There was another period of silence. The Kelgian anesthetist's fur rippled with impatience. It said, "The patient's condition is stable, Doctors, but it could terminate from old age while we wait."
Ignoring the remark as one did with Kelgians, the Melfan went on, "I'm going to extend the incision in both directions so as to see more of this area of bowel, which will enable me to lift it into the operative field and find the attachment point even if it is hiding on the underside. After which we will release it from any adhesions or local entanglements and deliver it into the wound where we will tie off, incise, and complete the procedure. Here we go. Be ready with suction, Doctor."
The incision was enlarged, its edges pulled apart, and the bowel lifted higher in the operative field.
"Still nothing visible," said the Melfan. "Doctor, your digits have more tactual sensitivity. Go underneath and see if you can feel anything."
"Nothing, sir," said the Tralthan.
The Melfan hesitated a moment, then said, "I'll extend the incision again. We'll save a few moments if you keep holding it. But carefully, it's very slippery ... Don't grab for it! Let go!"
Its surgical assistant had laid aside the instrument that had held the section of bowel above the wound while the other hand continued to hold it gently and firmly in position. But not firmly enough. Suddenly the bowel slipped between the Tralthan's digits and it made an instinctive grab for it, but succeeded only in pulling it higher above the operative field and into the path of the surgeon's scalpel. A four-inch long incision appeared suddenly on the bowel which gaped open and began leaking its liquid contents.
"So now we're faced with doing a bowel repair and we still haven't found the appendix yet," said the Melfan surgeon angrily. "This, this is not going well. This minor operation is fast becoming a major disaster."
It used a phrase that its translator, which had probably been programmed by people with less colorful Melfan vocabularies, refused to accept. Then it looked up directly into the vision recorder.
"Enough," it said, "I'm withdrawing from this one before we end up killing the patient. Same-species standby team, take over!"
Within seconds the OR door hissed open to admit three Earth-humans, already masked and gowned, and a floater bearing a tray of economically suited instruments. Quickly the Melfan, Tralthan, and Kelgian medics withdrew from the table. Their places were taken by the new arrivals, who immediately went to work.
As the original team were filing quietly out of the room, the big wall screen in Craythorne's office went dark as Councilor Davantry ended the playback and swung around to face them.
Davantry was a small, aging, soft-spoken Earth-human whose expression was grave and without the smallest trace of condescension—the kind of person who, like O'Mara's chief, had the ability to make an order sound as if he were requesting a favor. He did not look at all like a god but, as he was a senior member of the Galactic Federation's Central Medical Council, Craythorne had suggested that it would be a good idea to treat him as if he were. So far the major had not dared ask the purpose of the equipment in the opened, well-padded container in the center of the office floor.
O'Mara had the uneasy feeling that he was a god about to ask a favor that they could not refuse.
The councilor sighed and said, "You have just viewed one of several multi-species surgical experiments. It was also a horror story. Fortunately, none of the patients concerned terminated, although several came very close to it. There are many more such horror stories, if you want to view them. But they all make the same point, that practicing medicine and surgery—especially surgery—across the species divide is dangerous and, well, is a problem almost impossible of solution."
O'Mara nodded and waited for a moment to give Craythorne the chance to respond; then he said, "I note the qualifier, sir. Does it mean that you have found one?"
"It means that there are two possible solutions, Lieutenant," said Davantry, "Neither of which I particularly like. One is straightforward and probably unworkable, the other is simpler but, well, psychologically tricky. But first let us consider the reason for this hospital's existence, which is to receive and treat the sick and injured of the sixty-odd intelligent species that compose the Galactic Federation. In the light of the experiment you have just seen, and discounting the few species who don't travel in space, this would mean staffing the hospital with complete teams of physicians, surgeons, and medical and technical support staff of virtually every known life-form, on the off chance that a member of any one of those species would arrive needing treatment. It would be the same as providing sixty different one-species hospitals inside one structure. Sector General is big but not that big. It could be done but, to do it that way, the proportion of patients to staff would be ridiculously low and criminally wasteful of medical personnel, the majority of whom would have nothing to do but hang around waiting for a same-species patient to arrive. Inter-species conflicts could arise through sheer boredom."
