Prostho Plus (15 page)

Dillingham still found this hard to grasp. "Your grandson—what if I'd—"

"I shall have to introduce you more formally to that young security officer. He is not, unfortunately, my grandson; but he is the finest shot with the single-charge laser on the planet. We try to make our little skits realistic."

Dillingham remembered the metal mallet dripping to the floor: no freak interception after all. And the way the youngster had retreated before the tube... that, being single-shot, was no longer functional. Realism, yes.

That reminded him. "That tooth of yours I filled. I know that wasn't—"

"Wasn't fake. You are correct. I nursed that cavity for three months, using it to check out prospects. It is a very good thing I won't need it any more, because you spoiled it utterly."

"I—"

"You did such a competent job that I should have to have a new cavity cultured for my purpose. No experienced practitioner would mistake it now for a long-neglected case even if I yanked out the gold and re-impacted the cavity.
That
, Doctor, is the skill that impresses me—the skill that remains after the machinery has been incapacitated. Good intentions mean nothing unless backed by authoritative discretion and ability. You were very slow, but you handled that deliberately obstructive patient very well. Had it been otherwise—"

"But why me? You could have selected anyone—"

Oyster put a friendly smile into his voice. "Hardly, Doctor. I visited eleven dormitories that evening before I came to yours—with no success. All contained prospects whose record and fieldwork showed that particular potential. You selected yourself from this number and carried it through honourably. More correctly, you presented yourself as a candidate for the office; we took it from there."

"You certainly did!"

"Portions of your prior record were hard to believe, I admit. It was incredible that a person who had as little galactic background as you did should accomplish so much. But now we are satisfied that you do have the touch, the ability to do the right thing in an awkward or unfamiliar situation. That, too, is essential for the position."

Dillingham fastened on one incongruity. "I—I selected myself?"

"Yes, Doctor. When you demonstrated your priorities."

"My priorities? I don't—"

"When you sacrificed invaluable study time to offer assistance to a creature you believed was in pain."

Her heart sank when she saw Ra. There was no green on the surface of the planet; the entire landscape seemed to consist of tailings from the mines, mounded into mountains and eroded into valleys.

Radium mines—she had realized the significance of that too late. They were notorious throughout the galaxy for the effect they had on living creatures. The local ore, called pitch-car, was extraordinarily rich; thus it required only fifty tons of the stuff to produce a full ounce of radium. The non-commercial byproducts such as uranium were discarded wherever convenient. There was no trash collection here.

If Dr. Dillingham had come to this planet...

The ship landed ungently. The front port burst open, admitting a foul cloud of native smog, and several troll-like tripeds stomped in. One spoke, his voice like dry bones being run through an un-oiled grinder.

"Slaves of Ra," the central translator rasped, the words muffled by the babble of other renditions for the dubious benefit of a score of miserable species. "Co-operate, and you may survive for years. Malinger, and you will receive inclement assignments. Any questions?"

Judy felt sorry for the prisoners, but knew there was nothing at all she could do for them now.

"Sir," a lovely ladybug called melodiously. "We do not wish to seem ungrateful, but we are very hungry—"

True enough. There had been no food aboard, and the trip had lasted sixteen hours. Many galactic species had much more active metabolisms than human beings did, and there was no telling how long they had been hungry before she embarked.

"The others will be hauled to the force-feeding station after processing.
You
will wait for the following shift for sustenance, with half-rations for the first two days of your inclement assignment. Any other questions?"

There were none. The hapless prisoners had got the message.

"Now step out promptly as I call your names. Aardvark!"

A creature vaguely resembling its Earthly namesake emerged from its cramped compartment and shambled forward.

"Too slow!" the translator barked. A troll aimed a rod. A beam of energy stabbed out. A patch of fur on Aardvark's rump burst into flame, and the odour of scorched flesh drifted back. He broke into a gallop.

Judy had not quite believed the pessimism of the prisoners as they travelled, though she had talked with several. She had been naďve. This was horrible!

"Bugbear!"

A beetle the size of a bear lumbered hastily out, as well it might: a touch of the laser would puncture its thin shell and send its juices spewing.

"Cricketleg!" The next jumped down. Judy wondered how the rollcall came to be alphabetical in English, since the translator assigned names purely by convenience of description. This was merely another mystery of galactic technology.

"Dogface!" He yelped as the beam singed his tail.

"Earthgirl!"

Judy froze. It couldn't be! She was only here to—

A troll tramped down the aisle, poking his beamer ahead aggressively. He braced his three knobbly legs, reached out with a hairy arm, and grasped her hair in one hank. He yanked.

"No!" she cried, her eyes pulled round by the tension on her hair. "I'm only visiting! I'm not a prisoner!"

The troll hauled her up until she stood on tiptoes to ease the pain.
"Visiting!
Hee, hee, hee!" He aimed the beamer at her face.

"Trach!" she screamed. "Trach of Trachos! I'm here to see him!"

"A malingerer," the troll said with satisfaction. "I shall make an example. First I shall vaporize her squat snout." He flicked one of his four thumbs over a setting on the beamer and pressed the business end against her nose.

"One moment, troll," the translator said. Such instruments were versatile, serving as telephones and radios as well as language transposers. "I believe I heard my name."

The triped hesitated, grimacing. "Who are you, butting into private entertainment?"

"Trach, naturally. Be so kind as to deliver that creature to me, undamaged."

"I don't know no Trach!"

"Oh? Here is my identification." A phonetic
blob
sounded.

"Hm," the troll said, disgruntled. "That Trach. Well, send her on to the branding station when you're through with her."

Shoved roughly out, Judy pinned up her hurting hair temporarily and followed the translator's instructions to reach Trach's office. "Turn right, prisoner," the unit outside the ship snapped. She turned right; the other miserable aliens turned left, headed for the dismal rigours of processing. She felt guilty.

The spaceport, despite its choking atmosphere, was enclosed. She could make out the blowing dust beyond the grimy window panels, showing that it was actually worse outside. She heard the shriek of ore-bearing vehicles and saw a line of bedraggled workers headed for the arid entrance to a mine.

"Up the stairs, malingerer," the next unit said. She climbed flight after flight of cruelly steep rough stone steps. A panel on a landing gave her a view of a Ra graveyard: bones and clothing and shells and assorted other durable elements of assorted creatures. There was no attempt at burial.

"Third chamber down, weakling." She found the place and touched the door-signal.

"Enter," a differently-toned, more pleasant translator said from within. She was tempted to point out that it had forgotten the customary expletive.

She edged the bleak metal door open. The chamber was empty. She heard water running and saw fog near the ceiling. Someone was having a shower!

"I'll be right out," the pleasantly modulated voice said from the direction of the shower. It sounded real—as though spoken in English rather than translated. Unlikely, of course; she had encountered no one from Earth since answering that fateful ad.

The water noise stopped. Trach whistled cheerily as he dried himself in the other room. In a moment she heard his feet on the floor as he dressed. He sounded heavy. "You're Miss Galland of Earth," he called. "The muck-a-muck of Gleep notified me."

"You're not using a translator!" she exclaimed.

"I never bother," he admitted, still out of her sight. "Now where is my jacket? Can't entertain a lady undressed, ha-ha."

"Dr. Dillingham—is he here?"

"I'm afraid not. He left Electrolus for the University. He's undertaking administrative training now. I'm sorry to inform you that you made your trip here for nothing." His solid footsteps approached.

"Oh, no, I'm
glad
he's not here! I mean—"

Then she saw Trach. A literal, twelve-foot dinosaur.

"My dear, you look good enough to eat," he said, smiling. He had two thousand teeth.

She was not the fainting type. She fainted.

"An administrator," Oyster said, "has to be prepared to tackle problems that are beyond the capabilities of his subordinates."

"Of course," Dr. Dillingham agreed, but he didn't quite like the way the bivalved director said it. This was his first day back from his initial quartermester at the University of Administration, and though his Certificate of Potential Administration was in good order he hardly felt qualified for the job he faced. Of course this was only an interim experience-term, after which he would return for more advanced administrative training—but he had a nasty suspicion that Oyster wasn't going to let him off lightly.

"We've had a call from Metallica, one of the Robotoid planets," the Director said. Dillingham wondered what the real terms were for planets and species, but of course he would never know. Probably "man" was rendered in the other galactic languages as "hairy grub"... "The natives have an awkward situation, and our field representative bounced it on up to us. I'm not sure it's strictly a prosthodontic matter, but we'd best take a look."

Dillingham relaxed. For a moment he had been afraid that he was about to be sent out alone. But of course Oyster would have him watch a few missions before trusting him to uphold the University's reputation by diagnosing a field problem himself. Every move a Director made was galactic news, Minor news, to be sure—but a blunder would rapidly rebound.

"I have reserved accommodation for three," Oyster said briskly. His large shell gave his voice an authoritative reverberation the translator dutifully emulated. "It will be a forty-eight hour excursion, so have your appointments rescheduled accordingly."

"Passage for three? Dillingham had no appointments yet, as Oyster well knew.

"My secretary will accompany us, naturally. Miss Tarantula." The translator meant well, but the name gave him a start. "She's very efficient. Grasps the struggling essence immediately and sucks the blood right out of it, so to speak."

Just so.

A University limousine carried them past the student picket line and whisked them the three light-minutes to the transport terminal. Dillingham wondered what the students had on their collective mind. He had observed one of their demonstrations on his way in, but had not had the opportunity to inquire further.

Miss Tarantula was there ahead of them with the reservations. Her eight spiked spiderlegs bustled Oyster and Man busily into the elevator entering the galactic liner. She also carried suitcase and equipment.

"Please give Dr. Dillingham a synopsis of the problem," Oyster said once they were ensconced in their travelling compartment. The ubiquitous translator was built into the wall, and the acoustics were such that the Director seemed to be talking English. "While I snooze." With that he pulled in his arms and legs and closed his shell.

"Certainly." Miss Tarantula was busily stringing threads across her section, fashioning a shimmering web. She did not interrupt this chore as she spoke. "Metallica is one of the more backward Robotoid worlds, having been devastated some millennia ago in the course of the fabled Jann uprising. Archaeological excavations are currently in progress in an effort to uncover Jann artifacts and reconstruct the mundane elements of their unique civilization. It was thought that all the Jann had been destroyed, but now they have discovered one in the subterranean wreckage."

"It's skeleton, you mean," Dillingham interrupted.

"No, Director. A complete robot."

Oops. He had forgotten that they were dealing with a robotoid culture. Metal and ceramics instead of flesh and bones. "Must be pretty well rusted or corroded, though."

"Jann don't corrode. They're super-robots, invulnerable to normal forces and virtually immortal. This one happened to be incapacitated by—"

"You mean it's alive? After thousands of years?"

"As alive as a robot ever is, Director." She had completed her web and was now settled in it for the journey, her body completely suspended. It seemed to be an effective acceleration harness, though a liner of this type required no such precautions. "But this one can't function because it has a toothache. The natives don't dare approach it, but the excavation can't continue until it is removed. So they notified the University."

Dillingham whistled inwardly. That must be a phenomenal toothache, to freeze an immortal, invulnerable super-robot for over a thousand years. He was glad Oyster was handling this one; it would be educational to witness.

But what, he wondered, would they do with the Jann after its toothache had been cured? And what did a robot want with teeth? The ones he had met, dentists though they might be, had no proper mouths and did not eat.

Metallica
was
backward. Its spaceport resembled a junkyard, with corroding hulks at its fringe. A single dilapidated tower guided the liner in, and there was no landing net to clasp it invisibly in deep space and set it down with gentle precision. Their welcome, however, was warm enough.

"Director!" a small green robot said through a rickety mobile transcoder it trundled behind. "We've been sleepless awaiting your gracious arrival."