“That you did,” Cresk-Sar replied, looking at the wall chronometer. “Tapes covering the life-form physiological classification system will be sent to your quarters sometime today. You must study the visual material they contain, carefully and repeatedly, and use your translators on the spoken commentary. But now I have time only to outline the basics of the system.”
It turned suddenly and resumed its place facing them. Plainly the answer to the question was being directed toward everyone.
“Unless you have already been attached to one of the smaller, multi-environment hospitals,” Cresk-Sar said, “you will normally have encountered off-world patients one species at a time, probably on a short-term basis as a result of a ship accident, and you would refer to them by their planets of origin. But I must stress once again, the rapid and accurate identification of incoming patients is vital, because all too often they are in no condition to furnish the necessary physiological data themselves. Here we have evolved a basic, four-letter physiological classification system that enables us to provide the required life-support and initial treatment pending a more detailed investigation, if that should be necessary, by Pathology. It works like this.
“The first letter denotes the level of physical evolution reached by the species when it acquired intelligence,” it continued. “The second indicates the type and distribution of limbs, sense organs, and body orifices, and the remaining two letters refer to the combination of metabolism and food and air requirements associated with the home planet’s gravity and atmospheric pressure, which in turn gives an indication of the physical mass and protective tegument possessed by the being.”
Cresk-Sar barked softly before saying “Usually I have to remind our other-species trainees at this point that the initial letter of their classification should not be allowed to give them feelings of inferiority, because the degree of physical evolution is controlled by environmental factors and bears little relation to the degree of intelligence …”
Species with the prefix A, B, or C, it went on to explain, were water-breathers. On most worlds, life had originated in the sea, and these beings had developed intelligence without having to leave it. D through F were warm-blooded oxygen-breathers, into which group most of the intelligent races of the Federation fell, and the G and K types were also oxygen breathing, but insectile. The Ls and Ms were light-gravity, winged beings.
Chlorine-breathing life-forms were contained in the O and P groups, and after these came the more exotic, the more highly evolved physically, and the downright weird types. Into these categories fell the radiation-eaters, the ultra-cold-blooded or crystalline beings, and entities
capable of modifying their physical structure at will. However, those beings possessing extrasensory powers, telekinesis, or teleportation sufficiently well developed to make ambulatory or manipulatory appendages unnecessary were given the prefix V regardless of their size, shape, or environmental background.
“There are anomalies in the system,” the Senior Physician continued, “and these must be blamed on the lack of imagination and foresight of the originator. The AACP life-form, for example, has a vegetable metabolism. Normally the A prefix denotes a water-breather, there being nothing lower on our evolutionary coding scale than the piscatorial life-forms. But the double-A prefix, the AACPs, are mobile, intelligent vegetables, and plant life evolved before the fish.
“And now,” it said, looking at the chronometer again, “you will meet some of these weird and wonderful and perhaps horrifying creatures. It is the hospital’s policy to give you the earliest possible opportunity of getting to know and work with the patients and staff members. Regardless of your position or seniority in your home-planet hospitals, your rank here will be that of Junior or Trainee Nurse—until, that is, you can convince me that your professional competence warrants a higher rating.
“I am not easy to convince,” Cresk-Sar added as it began moving toward the exit. “Follow me, please.”
It was not easy to follow the Senior Physician because it moved fast for such a small being, and Cha Thrat had the feeling that the other trainees were more experienced in navigating the hospital corridors than she was. But then she noticed that the Hudlar—the FROB—was falling behind as well.
“For obvious reasons,” the FROB said as they drew level, “the people here give me plenty of room. If you were to stay directly behind me, together we might significantly increase our speed.”
She had a sudden and shocking feeling of unreality, as if she had been plunged into a nightmare world that was both terrifying and wonderful, a world in which courtesy was being shown by a horrendous beast that was capable of tearing her apart without straining a muscle
on one of its six tentacles. But even if this were a dream, the proper response had to be made.
“You are most considerate,” she said. “Thank you.”
The being’s membrane vibrated but the sound did not translate. Then it said, “About the nutrient paint you noticed earlier, to complete your information and to show how close your deductions were to the actuality, the paint is not necessary at home. There the atmosphere is so dense and thickly packed with edible, floating organisms that it resembles a semiliquid soup, a food source that, because of our high metabolic rate, is absorbed continuously. As you can see, the last paint application has almost disappeared and is due for renewal.”
Before she could reply, one of the Kelgian DBLFs fell back and said, “I was nearly walked on by a Tralthan just now. This looks like a good idea. There’s room for one more.”
It moved closer to Cha Thrat so that they were both protected by the Hudlar’s massive body. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “I do not wish to give offense, but I cannot tell the difference between one Kelgian and another. Are you the DBLF whose fur I was admiring during the lecture?”
“Admiring, you used the right word!” the Kelgian said, its fur running in concentric waves from head to tail. “Don’t worry about it. If we had more than one Sommaradvan, I couldn’t tell the difference either.”
Suddenly the Hudlar stopped and, looking past its speaking membrane, she saw why. The whole group of trainees had halted and Cresk-Sar was beckoning to a Melfan and the other two Kelgians.
“This is a Tralthan post-op recovery ward,” it said. “You two will report here after lectures every day until instructed otherwise. You don’t need protective suits, the air is breathable, and trace quantities of Tralthan body odor should be ignored. Go in, you’re expected.”
When the party was on its way again she noticed a few of the trainees detaching themselves without being told, and assumed that they had joined the class earlier and had already been assigned wards. One of them was her Hudlar crowd controller. Very soon the group had
shrunk until there was only the DBLF and herself left, and Cresk-Sar was pointing at the Kelgian.
“This is a PVSJ medical ward,” it said briskly. “You will be met inside the lock antechamber and instructed in the use of your protective envelope before going through. You will then—”
“But they’re chlorine-breathers in there!” the Kelgian protested, its fur standing out in spikes. “Can’t you give me a ward where I can at least breathe the air? Do you
try
to make it as difficult as possible for the new people? What happens if I accidentally rupture my suit?”
“To answer your questions in turn,” the Senior Physician replied, “No. You’ve discovered that. And the nearby patients would have their existing injuries complicated by oxygen contamination.”
“What about
me
, stupid?”
“You,” Cresk-Sar said, “would suffer chlorine poisoning. And what the Charge Nurse would do to you if you recovered doesn’t bear thinking about.”
She had to concentrate so hard on keeping pace with the Senior Physician as they descended three levels, and traversed seemingly endless and overpopulated corridors, that there was no chance to ask what she would be expected to do. But then Cresk-Sar stopped at an enormous lock entrance that was visually identified in the Galactic Federation’s principal written languages—but which did not, of course, include Sommaradvan—and answered the unasked question.
“This is the hospital’s AUGL ward,” it said. “You will find that the patients, all natives of the ocean world of Chalderescol, are among the most visually fearsome beings you are ever likely to encounter. But they are harmless so long as you—”
“The A prefix,” Cha Thrat broke in urgently, “denotes water-breathers.”
“Correct,” the Nidian said. “What’s wrong? Is there a problem O’Mara didn’t tell me about? Are you uncomfortable or afraid in water?”
“No,” Cha Thrat said. “I enjoy swimming, on the surface. The problem is my lack of a protective garment.”
Cresk-Sar barked and said, “There is no problem. The more complex
protective equipment for heavy-gravity, high-pressure, and elevated temperature work needs time to produce, but a simple, water-impermeable, contoured envelope with air and communication systems is an easy job for the fabricator. Your suit is waiting for you inside.”
This time the Senior Physician went with her, explaining that, as she was a new life-form to the hospital, it had to ensure that her equipment functioned properly and comfortably. But in the event, it was the being waiting for them in the lock antechamber who immediately took charge and did all the talking.
“Cha Thrat,” it said briskly, “I am Charge Nurse Hredlichli, a PVSJ. Your protective envelope is in two pieces. Climb into the lower half, pulling on one leg at a time, in whichever order you find most convenient, using the heavier arms encircling your waist. Use the same four arms to pull on the top half, inserting the head and four shouldermounted arms first. You will think that the limb end-sections are small, but this is to ensure a tight fit and maximum sensitivity for the digits. Don’t seal the waist joint until you know that your air supply is working. When you are sealed in, I’ll show you the systems checks that must be performed at every dressing. Then you will remove the envelope and put it on again, repeating the process until we are both happy with your performance. Please begin.”
Hredlichli circled her, giving advice and directions during the first three dressings, and then seemed to ignore her while it talked to the Senior Physician. The spiney, membraneous body, looking like a haphazard collection of oily, unhealthy vegetation, was obscured by the yellow chlorine fog inside the being’s protective envelope. It was impossible to tell where the Charge Nurse’s attention was directed, because Cha Thrat had been unable to locate its eyes.
“We are seriously understaffed at present,” Hredlichli was saying, “with three of my best nurses on special post-op recovery cases to the exclusion of all else. Are you hungry?”
Cha Thrat felt that the question was for her, but was unsure of the type of answer to give—the subservient, self-negating reply expected by
a ruler or the accurate, truthful kind due a warrior-level colleague. Ignorant as she was of Hredlichli’s exact status, she did her best to combine the two.
“I am hungry,” she replied, using the opportunity to test her suit’s communicator, “but the condition is not yet so advanced that it would impair me physically.”
“Good!” said Hredlichli. “As a junior-in-training you will soon discover that practically everyone and everything takes precedence over you. If this causes emotional tension, which may be expressed as verbal resentment or anger, try not to release it until you are out of my ward. You will be allowed to visit your dining hall, for a strictly limited period, as soon as someone returns to relieve you. And now I think you know how your suit works …”
Cresk-Sar turned toward the entrance. Lifting one tiny, hairy hand, it said, “Good luck, Cha Thrat.”
“ … So we’ll go inside to the Nurses’ Station,” it went on, seeming to ignore the departing Nidian. “Double-check your suit seals and follow me.”
She found herself in a surprisingly small compartment that had one transparent wall giving a view into a dim green world where the difference between the inhabitants and the decorative vegetation designed to make them feel at home was unclear. The other three sides of the room were covered by storage units, monitor screens, and equipment whose purpose she could not even guess at. The entire ceiling was devoted to brightly colored signs and geometrical shapes.
“We have a very good staff and patient safety record in this ward,” the Charge Nurse went on, “and I don’t want you to spoil it. Should you damage your suit and be in danger of drowning, however, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation is not advisable between oxygen- and chlorine-breathers, so you must move quickly to one of the emergency air chambers marked so”—she indicated one of the ceiling designs—“and await rescue. But the accident, or should I say the serious inconvenience, that you must guard against is pollution by patient body wastes. Filtration
or replacement of the water volume in a ward this size is a major maintenance operation that would hamper our work and get us talked about in derogatory fashion all over the hospital.”
“I understand,” Cha Thrat said.
Why had she come to this awful place, she wondered, and could she justify to herself her immediate resignation? In spite of the warnings from O’Mara and Cresk-Sar that she would be starting at the lowest level, this was not work for a Sommaradvan warrior-surgeon. If word of what she was expected to do were to get back to her erstwhile colleagues, she would be forced into the life of a recluse. But these people were not likely to tell her people about it because, to them, such activities were so commonplace as to be unworthy of mention. Perhaps she would be found unsuitable or incompetent and dismissed from the hospital with this demeaning and unpleasant episode secret and her honor intact. But she was dreading what was coming next.