Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [71]
“Excuse me, Commander, but that’s not the reason.” The specialist assumed an apologetic air. “They say that they have him safely isolated on their ship, but they’re afraid he’ll hurt himself.”
“Hmm.” Lahtehoja eyed the inquisitive, clearly awed visitors with new respect. “So we don’t know much about these Unop-Patha, but we see that they understand compassion. I’ll accept that as a basis for working with any alien species. Ask them if they will permit some of our medical personnel to go aboard their ship and remove this person they have so obligingly rescued.”
With a nod, the specialist turned to face the visitors. As he spoke through the translator that hung from around his neck he crouched to bring his face more in line with those of the aliens he was addressing—and also to assume a less intimidating aspect.
It took a few moments, what with the specialist’s need to adjust the translator each time human or alien spoke. Unlike High Thranx, for example, or Pitar, no one on board the warship spoke Unathian. There was no need for it.
Eventually the specialist rose. The look of satisfaction on his face preceded his announcement. “They say that they have no objection, but suggest that anyone we wish to send to visit their vessel be chosen as much for physical dimensions as for pertinent skills.”
“Thoughtful of them.” The commander turned her head in vaan Leuderwolk’s direction. “Find me some short doctors and nurses and have them assembled here. Let’s see what these people have found.” In a less authoritative tone she added, “What the devil is one lone individual doing stuck out here, of all places, and where the hell did he come from?”
“I’m as curious to know as you are, Ludmilla.” The captain watched as the petite aliens began redonning their rudimentary suit helmets. “Who wouldn’t be?”
It took several hours for the hastily assembled medical team to be transported to the Unathian vessel and to return. They made the transfer in a couple of the Ronin’s accessory craft—not because Lahtehoja and vaan Leuderwolk did not trust the patently inoffensive Unop-Patha, but because the transportation the aliens courteously offered to provide would have been too cramped even for the purposely diminutive group of physicians and assistants.
Lahtehoja was back on the bridge attending to the normal workday duties of a task-group commander when she was notified that the medical team had returned. Leaving the Ronin under designated cluster command, she and vaan Leuderwolk took an express lift to the infirmary. Lieutenant Colonel Holomusa, chief of medical staff, was waiting for them in the reception area. Cursed with the face and frame of a caricatured undertaker, he resorted to scanning makeup to enliven his otherwise doleful appearance. For all that, he was an upbeat and merry fellow, exactly the sort a patient confined in an infirmary would want to see coming toward them.
He was not smiling now, however. Lahtehoja did not like to see confusion and uncertainty spread like a mask across the faces of those under her command. She especially did not like to see it dominating the usually cheerful countenance of a ranking physician.
“I can see the prognosis in your face.” She sighed. “Educate me.”
Holomusa glanced down at his reader. “Anglo-Oceanic male, height one hundred and seventy-two centimeters, weight fifty-one kilos.” Noting her questioning look he added, “The reduced body weight doesn’t appear to fit naturally on his frame. He has the underlying musculature of a much stockier man. One doesn’t have to be a physician to be able to tell just by looking at him that his health has suffered—psychologically as well as physiologically. In other words, he’s had to deal with shock to his nervous system as well as an insufficiency of food. Naturally, each magnifies the deleterious effects of the other.” The chief medical officer swallowed. “After examining him, I’d say it’s a wonder he’s not in worse shape. Given his condition, it’s something of a surprise that he’s even alive.”
Vaan Leuderwolk