Down to Earth (41 page)

“Is it?” the clerk said, “If you are coming from worse, I sympathize with you.” She got very insulted when Gorppet laughed at her.

Ttomalss studied the report that had come up from the Moishe Russie Medical College.
Based on our present knowledge of Tosevite physiology and of available immunizations,
the physician named Shpaaka wrote,
it seems possible, even probable, that the specimen may, after receiving the said immunizations, safely interact with wild Tosevites. Nothing in medicine, however, is so certain as it is in engineering.

With a discontented mutter, Ttomalss blanked the computer screen. He’d hoped for a definitive answer. If the males down at the medical college couldn’t give him one, where would he get it?
Nowhere
, was the obvious answer. He recognized that Shpaaka was doing the best he could. Psychological research was also less exact than engineering. That still left Ttomalss unhappy.

After more mutters, he telephoned Kassquit. “I greet you, superior sir,” she said. “How are you this morning?”

“I am well, thank you,” Ttomalss answered. “And yourself?”

“Very well,” she said. “And what is the occasion of this call?”

She undoubtedly knew. She could hardly help knowing. That she asked had to mean she was unhappy about proceeding. Even so, Ttomalss explained the news he’d got from the physician down on the surface of Tosev 3. He finished, “Are you willing to undergo this series of immunizations so you are physically able to meet with wild Big Uglies?”

“I do not know, superior sir,” Kassquit replied. “What are the effects of the immunizations likely to be on me?”

“I do not suppose there will be very many effects,” Ttomalss said. “Why should there be? There are no major effects to immunizations among the Race. I had most of mine in early hatchlinghood, and scarcely remember them.”

“I see.” Kassquit made the affirmative hand gesture to show she understood. But then she said, “Still, these would not be immunizations from the Race. They would be immunizations from the Big Uglies, for Tosevite diseases. The Big Uglies are less advanced than the Race in a great many areas, and I am certain medicine is one of them.”

“Well, no doubt that is a truth.” Ttomalss admitted what he could hardly deny. “Let me inquire of Shpaaka. When he gives me the answer, I shall relay it to you.” He broke the connection.

On telephoning the physician, he got a recorded message telling him Shpaaka had gone to teach and would return his call as soon as possible. His own computer had the same kind of programming, which didn’t make him any happier about being on the receiving end of it. Concealing annoyance over such things was part of good manners. He recorded his message and settled into some other work while waiting for Shpaaka to get back to him.

After what seemed forever but really wasn’t, the physician did call back. “I greet you, Senior Researcher,” Shpaaka said. “You asked an interesting question there.”

“I thank you, Senior Physician,” Ttomalss replied. “The question, however, does not come from me. It comes from my Tosevite ward, who is of course most intimately concerned with it.”

“I see. That certainly makes sense,” Shpaaka said. “I had to do some research of my own before I could give the answer: partly by asking Big Ugly students of their experience with immunizations, partly having some of them consult Tosevite medical texts so they could translate the data in those texts for me.”

“I thank you for your diligence,” Ttomalss said. “And what conclusions did you reach?”

“That Tosevite medicine, like so much on this planet, is primitive and sophisticated at the same time,” the physician told him. “The Big Uglies know how to stimulate the immune system to make it produce antibodies against various local diseases, but do so by brute force, without caring much about reducing symptoms from the immunizations. Some of them appear to be unpleasant, though none has any long-term consequences worthy of note.”

“I see,” Ttomalss repeated, not altogether happily. If the immunizations were likely to make Kassquit sick, would she want to go forward with them?

Shpaaka said, “I tell you this, Senior Researcher: finding your answer has been one of the more pleasant, enjoyable, and interesting things I have had to do lately.”

“Oh?” Ttomalss said, as he was plainly meant to do. “And why is that?”

“Because the medical college has been cast into turmoil, that is why,” the physician replied. “You may or may not know that some miserable individual who thought he was more clever than he really was devised the
brilliant
plan of making the Big Uglies pay for the privilege of exercising their superstitions, which has provoked disorder over wide stretches of Tosev 3.”

“Yes, I do recall that,” Ttomalss said in faintly strangled tones. Shpaaka’s sarcasm stung. Fortunately, the other male didn’t know he was talking to the originator of the plan he scorned.

“You do? Good,” Shpaaka said. “Well, someone then decided on the converse for the medical college: that no one who failed to give reverence to the spirits of Emperors past would be allowed to continue. What no one anticipated, however, was that many Big Uglies—including some of the most able students, and even including the hatchling of the Big Ugly for whom the medical college was named—would be so attached to their superstitions that they would withdraw instead of doing what we required of them.”

“That is unfortunate, both for them and for relations between the Race and their species,” Ttomalss said.

Shpaaka made the affirmative hand gesture. “It is also unfortunate for the Tosevites these half-trained individuals will eventually treat. They would have done far better by choosing to stay.”

Ttomalss hadn’t thought about infirm Big Uglies. He’d seen plenty in China—rather fewer in the
Reich
, where the standards of medicine, if not high, were higher. “Well, it cannot be helped,” he said after a brief pause.

“Oh, it could be,” Shpaaka said. “All we have to do is rescind the idiotic policy we are now following. But I do not expect that, and I shall not take up any more of your time advocating it. Good day to you.”

“Good day,” Ttomalss answered, but he was talking to a blank screen: the physician had already gone.

He thought about telephoning Kassquit with the news, but decided to wait and take a meal with her at the refectory so he could pass it along in person. Among the Race, males and females had a harder time saying no in person than they did over the telephone. Ttomalss idly wondered if the same held true among the Big Uglies—those of them who had telephones, that is. Eventually, the Race would get around to researching such things. He doubted the time would come while he remained alive, though.

At the next meal, he put Shpaaka’s opinion to Kassquit. “How do you feel about the notion of bodily discomfort?” he asked.

“I really do not know,” she answered. “I have known very little bodily discomfort in my life here. The notion of illness seems strange to me.”

“You are fortunate—far more fortunate than the Big Uglies down on the surface of Tosev 3,” Ttomalss said. “You have never been exposed to the microorganisms that cause disease among them, and those of the Race do not seem to find you appetizing.”

“If I were to meet with wild Big Uglies, I would need these immunizations, would I not?” Kassquit asked.

“I would strongly recommend that you have them, at any rate,” Ttomalss said. “I would not wish to see you fall ill as a result of such a meeting.”
And I certainly would not wish you to die, not after l have put so much hard work into raising you up to this point.

Kassquit might have plucked that thought right out of his head. She said, “Yes, it would be inconvenient to you if I died in the middle of your research, would it not?” After a moment, she added, “It would also be most inconvenient to me.” She used an emphatic cough.

“Of course it would,” Ttomalss said uncomfortably. “If you do decide to meet with these wild Tosevites in person, you would be wise to receive these immunizations first.”

“You very much want me to meet with them, is that not so?” Without waiting for Ttomalss’ reply, Kassquit gave one herself: “It must be so. Why else would you have gone to all the trouble of raising me?” She sighed. “Well, if I am going to be an experimental animal, I had best be a good one. Is that not a truth, superior sir?” She waved a hand at the refectory full of males and females. “For all your efforts, and for all mine, I can never fully fit in here, can I?”

“Perhaps not fully, but as much as a Rabotev or a Hallessi.” Ttomalss spoke with care. As Kassquit reached maturity, so did her sense of judgment.

She proved that by making the negative hand gesture. “I believe you are mistaken, superior sir. From all I have been able to learn—and I have done my best to learn all I could, since the matter so urgently concerns me—the Hallessi and Rabotevs are far more like the Race than Tosevites are. Would you agree with that, or not?”

“I would have to agree,” Ttomalss said, wishing he could do anything but, yet knowing he would forfeit her confidence forever if he lied. “But I would also have to tell you that, when the day comes when all Tosevites are as acculturated to the ways of the Empire as you are now, the Race will have no difficulty in ruling this planet.”

“May it be so,” Kassquit said. “And you need me to help you make it so, is that not also a truth?”

“You know it is,” Ttomalss answered. “You have known it ever since you grew old enough to understand such things.”

Kassquit sighed again. “Truth, superior sir: I have known that. And the best way for me to make it so is for me to begin meeting with Big Uglies in person. You have wanted me to do so since my first telephone conversation with Sam Yeager, and you were surely planning such a thing even before the Big Ugly precipitated matters. Can you truthfully tell me I am mistaken?”

“No,” Ttomalss said. “I cannot tell you that. But I can tell you I have not tried to force you onto this course, and I shall not do so. If you do not wish it, it shall not be done.”

“For which I thank you—but it needs to be done, does it not?” Kassquit asked bleakly. Again, she did not wait for Ttomalss to reply, but answered her own question: “It does indeed need to be done. Very well, superior sir. I shall do it.”

There in the crowded refectory, Ttomalss rose from his seat and assumed the posture of respect before Kassquit. His Tosevite ward exclaimed in surprise. So did a good many males and females, who also stared and pointed. He didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, what he’d done was altogether appropriate. As he rose once more, he said, “I thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Kassquit answered. “You may give whatever orders are necessary to begin the immunization process.”

“I shall do that,” Ttomalss said. He’d almost answered,
It shall be done.
Kassquit was not his superior. Somehow, though, she’d made him feel as if she were. He wondered how she’d managed to do that.

 
11

In her life aboard the Race’s starship, Kassquit had known little bodily discomfort. Oh, she’d had her share of bumps and bruises and cuts—more than her share, as she saw things, for her skin was softer and more vulnerable than the scaly hides of the Race—but none of them had been bad. And, since her body reached maturity, she’d also had to deal with the cyclic nature of Tosevite female physiology. It made her resent her origins—the Race certainly had no such problems—but, with the passage of time, she’d grown resigned to it.

These immunizations brought a whole different order of unpleasantness. One of them raised a nasty pustule on her arm. Up till then, her knowledge of infections had been purely theoretical. For a while, as the afflicted region swelled and hurt, she wondered if her immune system could cope with the microorganisms from the planet on which her kind had evolved. But, after a few days, the pustule did scab over, even though the scar it left behind looked as if it was liable to be permanent.

Other injections proved almost as unpleasant as that one. They made her arm or her buttock sore for a couple of days at a time. Some of them raised her body temperature as her immune system fought the germs that stimulated it. She’d never known fever before, and didn’t enjoy the feeling of lassitude and stupidity it brought.

As a physician readied yet another hypodermic, she asked, “By the Emperor, how many diseases
are
there down on Tosev 3?”

“A great many,” the male answered, casting down his eyes for a moment. “Even more than there are on Home, by all indications—or perhaps it is just that the Big Uglies can cure or prevent so few of them. This one is called cholera, I believe. It is not an illness you would want to have, and that is a truth.” He used an emphatic cough. “This immunization does not confer perfect resistance to the causative organism, but it is the best the Tosevites can do. Now you will give me your arm?”

“It shall be done,” Kassquit said with a sigh. She did not flinch as the needle penetrated her.

“There. That was very easy,” the physician said, swabbing the injection site with a disinfectant. “It was, in fact, easier than it would have been with a male or female of the Race. Here, your thin skin is an advantage?”

“How nice,” Kassquit said distantly. She did not want to be different from the Race. With all her heart, she wished she could be a female like any other. She knew what such wishes were worth, but couldn’t help making them.

Except for the one that had raised the pustule, the injection for the disease called cholera proved the most unpleasant Kassquit had endured. She enjoyed neither the pain nor the fever. They seemed to take forever to ebb. If the disease was worse than the treatment that guarded against it, it had to be very nasty indeed.

Sam Yeager telephoned Kassquit while she was recovering from the immunization. Not feeling up to dealing with the Big Ugly, she refused the call. Before long, he sent her a message over the computer network:
I hope I have done nothing to cause offense.

That was polite enough to require a polite answer.
No,
she replied.
It is only that I have not felt well lately.

I am sorry to hear it,
he wrote back promptly.
I did not think it would be easy for you to get sick up there, away from all the germs of Tosev 3. I hope you get better soon.

I have been free of the germs of Tosev 3,
Kassquit answered.
That is the cause of my present discomfort: I am being immunized against them, and some of the immunizations have unpleasant aftereffects.

Again, Sam Yeager wrote back almost at once. He had to be sitting by his computer as Kassquit was sitting by hers.
Are you getting immunized so you can meet Big Uglies in person?
he asked.
If you are, I hope that my hatchling and I are two of the Big Uglies you will want to meet. We certainly want to meet you.
He used the conventional symbol that represented an emphatic cough.

Despite its breezily informal syntax, Kassquit studied that message with considerable respect. Wild Big Ugly Sam Yeager might be, but he was anything but a fool.
Yes, that is why I am being immunized,
Kassquit told him, her artificial fingerclaws clicking on the keyboard.
And yes, you and your hatchling are two of the Tosevites I am interested in meeting.

Sam Yeager’s hatchling, Jonathan Yeager, intrigued her no end. She had never seen anyone who resembled her so closely. Living as she did among the Race, she had never imagined that anyone could resemble her so closely. He even shaved his head and wore body paint. It was as if he and she were two ends of the same bridge, reaching toward the middle to form . . . what?

If this world has a future as part of the Empire,
she thought,
its future will be as whatever forms in the middle of that bridge.

Once more, Sam Yeager wasted no time in replying.
We very much look forward to it, superior female,
he wrote.
Shall we start setting up arrangements with the Race?

Part of Kassquit—probably the larger part—dreaded the idea. The rest, though, the rest was intrigued. And she agreed with Ttomalss that such a meeting would bring advantage to the Race. And so, in spite of a sigh, she answered,
Yes, you may do that, and I will do the same. I do not know how long the negotiations will take.

Too long,
Sam Yeager predicted.

Kassquit laughed.
You are intolerant of bureaucracy,
she observed.

I hope so,
the wild Big Ugly wrote, which made Kassquit laugh again. Sam Yeager went on,
Bureaucracy is like spice in food. A little makes food taste good. Because it does, too many males and females think a lot will make the food taste even better. But cooking does not improve that way, and neither does bureaucracy.

Some regulation is necessary,
Kassquit wrote. She had known nothing but regulation throughout her life.

I said as much,
Sam Yeager answered.
But when does some become too much? Tosevites have been arguing that question for as long as we have been civilized. We still are. I suppose the Race is, too.

No, not really.
Kassquit keyed the characters one by one.
I have never heard such a discussion among the Race. We have, for the most part, the amount of regulation that suits us.

I do not know whether to congratulate the Race or offer my sympathy,
the Tosevite responded.
And as for you, you are with the Race but not of it, the way hatchlings of the Race would be if Big Uglies raised them.

I would like to meet such hatchlings, if there were any,
Kassquit wrote.
I have thought about that very possibility, though I do not suppose it is likely. Even if it were, such hatchlings would still be very small.

So they would,
Sam Yeager replied.
And I have another question for you—even if you did meet these hatchlings when they were grown, what language would you speak with them?

Why, the language of the Race, of course,
Kassquit wrote, but she deleted the words instead of sending them. The Big Ugly had thought of something she hadn’t. If his kind were raising hatchlings of the Race to be as much like Tosevites as possible, they would naturally teach them some Tosevite tongue. Kassquit had trouble imagining males and females of the Race who didn’t know their own language, but it made sense that such hatchlings wouldn’t. And why not? She was a Big Ugly by blood, but spoke not a word of any Tosevite tongue.

What she did transmit was,
I see that you have done a good deal of thinking on these matters. Do I understand that you have been dealing with the Race since the conquest fleet came to Tosev3?

Yes,
the Tosevite answered.
In fact, I was interested in non-Tosevite intelligences even before the conquest fleet got here.

Kassquit studied the words on the screen. Sam Yeager wrote the language of the Race well, but not as a male of the Race would have: every so often, the syntax of his own language showed through. That was what had first made her suspect he was a Big Ugly. Did his message mean what it looked to mean, or had he somehow garbled it? Kassquit decided she had to ask.
How could you have known of non-Tosevite intelligences before the conquest fleet came?
she wrote.
Big Uglies had no space travel of their own up till that time.

No, we had no space travel,
Sam Yeager agreed.
But we wrote a lot of fiction about what it might be like if Tosevites met all different kinds of intelligent creatures. I used to enjoy that kind of fiction, but I never thought it would come true till the day the Race shot up the railroad train I was riding.

“How strange.” Kassquit spoke the words aloud, and startled herself with the sound of her own voice. The more she learned about the species of which she was genetically a part, the more alien it seemed to her. She wrote,
Such things would never have occurred to the Race before spaceflight.

So I gather
Sam Yeager replied.
We speculate more than the Race does, or so it seems.

Is that good or bad?
Kassquit wrote.

Yes.
The unadorned word made her stare. After a moment, in a separate message, Sam Yeager went on,
Sometimes differences are not better or worse. Sometimes they are just different. The Race does things one way. Big Uglies do things a different way—or sometimes a lot of different ways, because we are more various than the Race.

If it hadn’t been for that variability, Kassquit knew the Race would easily have conquered Tosev 3. The majority of the planet’s inhabitants, the majority of the regions of its land surface, had fallen to the conquest fleet with relatively little trouble. But the minority . . . The minority had given, and continued to give, the Race enormous difficulties.

Before Kassquit could find a way to put any of that into words, SamYeager wrote,
I have to leave now—time for my evening meal. I will be in touch by message and by telephone—if you care to talk with me—and I hope to see you in person before too long Goodbye.

Goodbye,
Kassquit answered. She got up from her seat in front of the computer, took off the artificial fingerclaws one by one, and set them in a storage drawer near the keyboard. It wasn’t time for her evening meal, or anywhere close to it. All the ships in the conquest fleet—and now in the colonization fleet, too—kept the same time, independent of where in their orbit around Tosev 3 they happened to be. Intellectually, Kassquit understood how time on the surface of a world was tied to its sun’s apparent position, but it had never mattered to her.

She hoped she would hear from Sam Yeager again soon. Such hope surprised her; she remembered how frightened she’d been at first of the idea of communicating with a wild Big Ugly. But he looked at the world in a way so different from the Race, he gave her something new and different to think about in almost every message. Not even Ttomalss did that.

And Sam Yeager, just because he was a Big Ugly, knew her and knew her reactions, or some of them, better than even Ttomalss could. In some ways, Kassquit suspected Sam Yeager knew her better than she knew herself. She made the negative hand gesture.
No. He knows what I would be, were I an ordinary Big Ugly.

But wasn’t she some of that anyhow? She shrugged helplessly. How was she supposed to know?

Reuven Russie had thought he knew a good deal about medicine. His father was a doctor, after all; he’d had the benefit of insight and training no one starting from scratch could hope to equal. And he’d attended the Moishe Russie Medical College, learning things from the Race that human physicians wouldn’t have discovered for themselves for generations. If that didn’t prepare him for practice, what could?

After his first few hectic weeks of working with his father, he began to wonder if anything could have prepared him for the actual work of medicine. Moishe Russie laughed when he complained about that, laughed and remarked, “The Christians say, ‘baptism by total immersion.’ That’s what you’re going through?”