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.