“The original injury was not disabling,” said Morredeth, “but the resulting condition is very serious, and incurable. Unfortunately, it will not kill me. I do not wish to talk about it.”
Hewlitt hesitated, then said, “Do you wish to talk about something else, or would you prefer me to leave?”
Morredeth ignored him and went on, “I should try to talk about it, Lioren says, and think about it instead of trying to push it out of my mind. Right now I want to talk about the other patients, the medical staff, and anybody or anything else so that I will not have to think about it. But I can’t talk and think about other things all the time, not when the patients are sleeping, or when the night nurse stops talking to me because it has other things to do, or when I fall asleep myself. I don’t know about your kind, but Kelgians have no voluntary control over the subject of their dreams.”
“Nor have we,” said Hewlitt, looking at the rectangle of silvery fabric attached to the other’s body and wondering what terrible injury it concealed.
Morredeth saw where he was looking. It ruffled its fur and said, “I will not talk about it.”
But you have been not-talking about it, or talking all around it, since I sat down on your bed. A psychologist would be able to make something of that, Hewlitt thought. Aloud, he said, “You mentioned a person called Lioren. I have been told that a Tarlan with that name might be calling on me soon.”
“Not too soon, I hope,” said Morredeth.
“Why do you say that?” Hewlitt asked, beginning to feel uneasy. “Is it a particularly unpleasant creature?”
“No,” the other replied. “I have found it to be a pleasant entity, at least for a non-Kelgian. I have not been here long enough to know what exactly it does, but Horrantor tells me that it is usually sent to patients that the medics are no longer able to help. You know, the hopeless cases.”
Hewlitt did not like the sound of that, and wondered if Braithwaite’s earlier reference to Lioren had been entirely factual. Not everyone, in fact not anyone, was as forthright as a Kelgian.
“Who is Horrantor?” he asked. “One of the medics?”
“One of the patients,” said Morredeth, pointing. “That one. It is coming to find out what we are talking about. You can feel the floor shaking.”
“What is wrong with it?” said Hewlitt. He kept his voice low in case the Tralthan patient, too, was reticent about its medical problems.
“Surely that is obvious,” the Kelgian snapped at him, “when it is walking on only five legs. The strapped-up leg was crushed in an industrial accident, rebuilt with microsurgery, and will be good as new. There was damage to the reproductive system and birth canal which still require treatment, but don’t ask it for the gory details. At least, not while I’m with you. I have heard more than enough about its reproductive plumbing, and anyway, it reminds me of my own problems. Oh, Bowab is heading this way, too. We usually play cards, bellas or scremman, to pass the time. Do you play any card games?”
“Yes, no,” said Hewlitt. “What I mean is, I know the rules of a few Earth games, but I don’t play them well. Is Bowab the Duthan who is walking behind Horrantor? What is wrong with it?”
“You are very indecisive, Hewlitt,” said Morredeth. “Either you can play or you cannot. Bellas is a Tralthan game of skill similar to Earth whist. Scremman is from Nidia originally and, according to Bowab, who considers itself an expert, is a game of chance played by skillful, passive liars and cheats. I don’t know what is wrong with the Duthan except that the problem is uncommon, and medical rather than surgical. This is the hospital’s main observation, transition, and sometimes recuperation ward for patients lucky enough to survive-which, Leethveeschi tells us, is most of them. They send some pretty weird patients here sometimes.”
“Yes,” said Hewlitt, watching the two who were approaching and wondering whether, in the present company, the remark was aimed at him.