Miles, Mystery & Mayhem - Lois McMaster Bujold [178]
"I suppose I could try to steal some," said Quinn unenthusiastically, evidently also conscious of Cee's renewed frigidity. "Although Kline Station is not the easiest place for that sort of tactic . . ." She trailed off in thought.
"Is there any particular reason it has to be purified tyramine?" Ethan asked suddenly. "Or do you just need so many milligrams of tyramine in your bloodstream, period?"
"I don't know," said Cee. "We always just used the tablets."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. He rummaged the little wall-desk nearby for a note panel, and began to tap out a list.
"What now?" asked Quinn, craning her neck.
"A prescription, by God the Father," said Ethan, tapping on in growing excitement. "Tyramine occurs naturally in some foods, you know. If you choose a menu with a high concentration of it— Millisor can't possibly have every food outlet on the Station bugged—nothing illegal about going grocery shopping, is there? You'll probably have to hit the import shops for a lot of this. I don't think much of it is room service console standard fare."
Quinn took the list and read it, her eyebrows rising. "All of this stuff?"
"As much as you can get."
"You're the doctor," she shrugged, getting to her feet. Her smile grew lopsided. "I think Mr. Cee is going to need one."
* * *
Two hours of strained silence later, Quinn returned to Cee's hostel room lugging two large bags.
"Party time, gentlemen," she called, dumping the bags on the table. "What a feast."
Cee quailed visibly at the mass of edibles.
"It—seems rather a lot," remarked Ethan.
"You didn't say how much," Quinn pointed out. "But he only has to eat and drink until he switches on." She lined up claret, burgundy, champagne, sherry, and dark and light beer bulbs in a soldierly row. "Or passes out." Around the liquids in an artistic fan she placed yellow cheese from Escobar, hard white cheese from Sergyar, two kinds of pickled herring, a dozen chocolate bars, sweet and dill pickles. "Or throws up," she concluded.
The hot fried chicken liver cubes alone were native produce from the Kline Station culture vats. Ethan thought of Okita and gulped. He picked up a few items and blanched at the price tags.
Quinn caught his grimace, and sighed. "Yes, you were right about having to hit the import shops. Do you have any idea how this is going to look on my expense account?" She bowed Terrence Cee toward the smorgasbord. "Bon appetit."
She kicked off her boots and lay down on Cee's bed with her hands locked behind her neck and an expression of great interest on her face. Ethan pulled the plastic seal off a liter squeeze bottle of claret, and helpfully offered up the cups and utensils the room service console produced.
Cee swallowed doubtfully, and sat down at the table. "Are you sure this will work, Dr. Urquhart?"
"No," said Ethan frankly. "But it seems like a pretty safe experiment."
An audible snicker drifted from the bed. "Isn't science wonderful?" said Quinn.
Chapter Ten
For courtesy's sake Ethan shared the wine, although he gave the chicken livers, pickles, and chocolate a pass. The claret was rotgut despite its price, although the burgundy was not bad and the champagne—for dessert—was quite tasty. A slightly gluey disembodiment warned Ethan that courtesy had gone far enough. He wondered how Cee, still dutifully nibbling and sipping across the table, was holding up.
"Can you feel anything yet?" Ethan inquired of him anxiously. "Can I get you anything? More cheese? Another cup?"
"A spacesick sack?" asked Quinn helpfully. Ethan glared at her, but Cee merely waved away the offers, shaking his head.
"Nothing yet," he said. His hand unconsciously rubbed his neck. Ethan diagnosed incipient headache. "Dr. Urquhart, are you quite sure that no part of the shipment of ovarian cultures