The sensible thing for Conway to do would be to bow out gracefully and dump the
problem in the laps of the cultural
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contact specialists. Rhabwar could then return to its dock and the medical team
could go back to treating the weird and wonderful variety of patients who
turned up at Sector General while they waited for the next distress call for
their special ambulance ship.
But the two men watching him so intently were a scoutship commander on survey
duty, who would be lucky if he turned up one inhabited system in ten years of
searching, and Major Fletcher, Rhabwar’s Captain and a recognized authority in
the field of extraterrestrial comparative technology—and the rescue of this e-t
sublight colonization transport could well be the biggest problem to face the
Federation since the discovery and treatment of the continent-girdling strata
creature of Drambo/
Conway looked from Nelson to Fletcher, then said quietly, “You’re right,
Captain, this isn’t our responsibility. It is Cultural Contact’s problem, and
they would not think any the less of us, in fact they would expect us to hand it
over to them. But I get the impression that you don’t want me to do that.”
Fletcher shook his head firmly and Nelson said, “Doctor, if you have any friends
in authority, tell them I would willingly give an arm or a leg to be allowed to
stay on this one.”
A cool, logical portion of Conway’s mind was urging him to do the sensible
thing, to think about what he was letting himself in for and to remember who
would be blamed if things went wrong, but it never had any hope of winning that
argument.
“Good,” Conway said, “that makes it unanimous.”
They were both grinning at him in a manner totally unbefitting their rank and
responsibilities, as if he had bestowed some great favor instead of condemning
them to months of unremitting mental and physical hard labor. He went on, “As
the ship responsible for making the original find, Tyrell would be justified in
remaining, and as the medical team in attendance, the same applies to Rhabwar.
But we are going to need a lot of help, and if we are to have any hope of
getting it you will have to give me detailed information on every aspect of this
problem, not just the medical side, and answers to the questions which are going
to be asked.
“To begin with, I shall need to know a great deal more about the physiology of
the survivors, and you will have to
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find me a couple of additional cadavers for Thornnastor, the hospital’s
Diagnostician-in-Charge of Pathology. It has six feet and weighs half a ton and
if Murchison and I don’t come up with some sensible conclusions about this
life-form, and specimens for Thorny to investigate independently, it will walk
all over me. And what O’Mara and Skempton will do—”
‘They’re public servants, Doctor,” Nelson said, grinning. “You have the rank.”
Conway got to his feet and said very seriously, “This is not simply a matter of
whistling up another flotilla of scoutships, gentlemen, and something more than
a hyperspace signal will be needed this time. To get the help we need I’ll have
to go back to the hospital and argue and plead, and probably thump the table a
bit.”
As he entered the gravity-free central well and began pulling himself toward the
Casualty Deck he could hear Fletcher saying, “That wasn’t much of an
inducement, Nelson. Most of his highly placed friends have more arms and legs
than they know what to do with.”
Leaving Rhabwar and the rest of the medical team at the disaster site, Conway
traveled to Sector General in Tyrell. He had requested an urgent meeting with
the hospital’s big three— Skempton, Thornnastor, and O’Mara—as soon as the
scoutship had emerged into normal space. The request had been granted but Chief
Psychologist O’Mara had told him curtly that there would be no point trying to
start the meeting prematurely by worrying out loud over the communication
channel, so Conway had to curb his impatience and try to marshal his arguments