The compleat collected s.., p.422
The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 422
His wife heard the same news item. She looked dreadfully tired but happier than he had seen her for a great many years. But she was not talking to him for the time being because he had told her the truth and had deliberately made it sound like a lie.
Hewlitt's mind and fingers were so stiff and tired that he was almost an hour late in completing the suit. But that did not matter: Scrennagle did not call for it. Just two hours before the reception was due to begin, a uniformed inspector arrived to say that there had been unforeseen delays and that he would collect the outfit and take it to Scrennagle's ship. A few minutes later, a more senior police officer arrived to say that since there was no longer any need for secrecy they were removing the screens from his shop front and that a couple of glaziers had also arrived to replace his door window.
"Can't it wait until morning?" Hewlitt asked, clenching his teeth to fight back a yawn.
"You look very tired, sir," the policeman said. "I would be happy to stay here until they've finished, and lock the door as I leave. I'll put your key in the letter-box."
"That is very considerate of you," said Hewlitt warmly. "I do need rest. Thank you."
"My pleasure, sir," said the officer, so respectfully that he seemed to be ready to salute.
The warm feeling left by the unusually friendly policeman faded as Hewlitt mounted the stairs. He thought about the probable reasons why Scrennagle had sent for his suit rather than collect it himself. The outfit he had worn this morning had probably been a mess, and this evening he would be wearing a horse blanket tailored on short notice by someone else. Being a diplomat and a considerate being as well, Scrennagle would not want to complain in person to Hewlitt, or to pass on the criticisms which had doubtless been made about his appearance. He would simply take delivery of the second outfit and say nothing.
But Hewlitt's misery was short-lived. As he slumped into his chair before the TV screen, a panel of experts were discussing the implications of contact with an extra-solar race, and pundits always put him to sleep.
The first few bars of the fanfare which opened the late-night newscast, especially extended to cover the visit of the extraterrestrial, jerked Hewlitt awake. Quickly he wheeled his wife in from the kitchen, then settled back to see how Scrennagle had comported himself.
Unlike the amateur film taken at St. James', Scrennagle's arrival for the reception was covered in close-up, middle distance, and from every angle.
The ambassador was not wearing a horse blanket.
His jacket was a good fit at the collar and shoulders, but showed a tendency to wrinkle across the back when Scrennagle straightened after making a bow—something he had to do every few minutes. The trousers hung well, making the legs look neither too blocky nor too thin, and the black socks and dully polished hooves were elegantly inconspicuous. The tail was coiled and tied forward like that of some heraldic beast, and its occasional twitchings were barely noticeable.
The only touch of color was the wide silk ribbon that diagonally bisected the white shirt front and waistcoat. It was pale blue with a thin edging of red and gold on which was centered the intricately decorated translation device which bore the symbol of the Federation. Although not the most impressive decoration there, it still managed to hold its own among all the Baths and Garters.
Scrennagle of Dutha, Hewlitt realized suddenly, looked well ...
Then the Duthan was making his speech, outlining briefly the purpose of his visit and touching on some of the advantages which membership in the Galactic Federation would confer in both directions.
It had been just over one hundred and fifty years earlier that one of the Federation's unmanned searchships found intelligent life and a rapidly developing technology on Earth. The long delay in responding to the situation, Scrennagle explained, was due to the fact that the searchships—which rarely found anything—were not fitted with power-hungry, ultimate drive because machinery, unlike Duthans, Earth-humans, and members of other intelligent species, did not age or become bored. The searchship had spent many years in orbit photographing, analyzing, evaluating specimens of flora and fauna, the written and spoken languages—the last being particularly difficult for its soft-landed probes to obtain because radio and television had not then been invented.
When the data had been returned to Dutha for study, several difficult decisions had had to be taken. There was, of course, no question that contact should not be attempted with the rich and varied cultures on Earth. But at the time the material had been gathered, many sociopolitical groupings were showing signs of imminent collapse while others were rapidly growing in power and influence.
At that time the British Empire, with its center of power and commerce in London, was the most important and influential grouping, but it, too, was showing signs of collapse. It had grown slowly, however, and its traditions and laws were deeply rooted. The indications were that it would not collapse catastrophically, but wane slowly and disintegrate in a stable fashion. It was also thought that the manners and practices observed a century and a half earlier would not significantly alter in such a long-lived grouping ...
"That is why I landed quietly in this country rather than in one of the others," Scrennagle continued. "I now know that the decision was the correct one. But we, too, have certain rules of behavior in these circumstances. You might think that for a highly advanced Galactic culture we are surprisingly old-fashioned. But an acceptable code of behavior plays a vital part in dealings between species so widely varied as the members of our Federation.
"One of our strictest rules," he added, wrinkling his facial openings in what was undoubtedly a smile, "is that visitors such as myself conform to all of the social practices and customs of the host planet, even to the extent of wearing its clothing ..."
He concluded by saying that his intention was to make a round of official visits to heads of state on Earth. Then, later, he would return to take a leisurely, sightseeing tour of the planet which would enable him to meet people in more relaxed conditions. He added that Earth had been the first new world to be offered membership in something over four centuries, and he would be happy to answer questions on every subject under this or any other sun.
The next item was the TV interview, during which, at long last, the subject of Scrennagle's clothing came up.
"... we will need much more time to consider the wider aspects of your visit," the interviewer was saying, "but right now, Your Excellency, I would like to ask a question, and also compliment you, on your clothing. Or perhaps I should compliment your extraterrestrial tailor?"
"You should compliment my terrestrial tailor," Scrennagle said, then went on: "On many worlds clothing is simply a means of giving protection from extremes of weather, while on others the fabrication, styling, and wearing of clothing has been raised to the level of a major art form. Earth is in the latter category and possesses at least one tailor who is capable of making an extraterrestrial ... presentable."
The interviewer laughed and asked, "Who is he, Your Excellency?"
"I would rather not say at present," Scrennagle replied. "He and his wife have worked long and hard, and they deserve at least one night's sleep before fame descends on them. Suffice it to say that my tailor is relatively unknown but a craftsman of the highest order. He is also something of a tyrant in sartorial matters, a characteristic common to tailors throughout the Galaxy. He is not afraid to accept a professional challenge, as you can see."
"Yes, indeed," said the interviewer.
"No doubt there will be other challenges," Scrennagle went on, turning his face directly into the camera, but Hewlitt knew that he was not speaking solely to the interviewer. "My race was chosen to make first contact with Earth-humans simply because my people most closely resembled yours—despite what you must think are major physiological differences. Other races in the Federation have much more varied and interestingly arranged limbs and appendages; and to the uninitiated they may even appear to be quite horrendous. But ambassadors from all these species in time will visit Earth to present their credentials and their good wishes. And they will all require to be suitably attired for the occasion. They will be very pleased and reassured to know," he ended, "that there is an Earth-human tailor in whom they can place their complete trust ..."
The intense feelings of pride and excitement which should have kept him awake that night, but did not, were with him in undiminished intensity when he opened the shop next morning. His reflection in the store window opposite looked the same as always, but something different about the reflected picture made him turn around quickly.
The new door pane was not quite the same as the old one. It now read george l. hewlitt, tailor, centered above a beautifully executed copy of the design which appeared on Scrennagle's translator—the symbol which represented all the worlds of the Galactic Federation—followed by the words by appointment.
The End
Underkill
Corgi – 1979
Contents
Chapter One – ICU
Chapter Two – Complications
Chapter Three – Natural Resistance
Chapter Four – Case History
Chapter Five – Gunshot Wounds
Chapter Six – Multiple RTA
Chapter Seven – Examination
Chapter Eight – Consultation
Chapter Nine – Bomb Blast Victim
Chapter Ten – Comparative Physiology
Chapter Eleven – Special Treatment
Chapter Twelve – A Change of Scenery
Chapter Thirteen – Regimen
Chapter Fourteen – Observation
Chapter Fifteen – Police Operation
Chapter Sixteen – Diagnosis
Chapter Seventeen – Major Surgery
Chapter Eighteen – Intensive Care
Chapter One – ICU
IN SPITE of the advances in medical science and the sophistication of the associated bio-sensory and monitoring devices, the practice of intensive care therapy still required one highly-trained nurse concentrating all of her or his attention on one critically ill patient—staff availability permitting.
Tonight there was no shortage either of staff or patients, Malcolm saw as he left Ann inside the entrance of the Intensive Care Unit and walked slowly towards the glass-walled monitor room which, if he was lucky, he would not have to leave more than fifty times before the end of his current spell of duty. But as Malcolm looked at the bedside displays he passed, and at the clinical pictures they represented, he was afraid that he would not be even moderately lucky tonight.
In the monitor room the repeater screens with their more detailed presentations confirmed his fears.
"Anything unusual?" he asked Chiak, the day man.
"Not much," the other doctor replied, looking up at Malcolm with tired, red-rimmed eyes which were only partly concealed by the dozens of tiny monitor screens reflected in his spectacles. "Most of them are in the same condition as last night, but not too stable, I'm afraid. There are three new arrivals, two RTAs and a GSW. One of the road traffic accidents should make it. The gunshot wound is in cubicle Four, in old Rawlins's spot. We lost him this afternoon." He yawned suddenly, showing a coated tongue and his not very good teeth, then added, "And there's a rumour that the Prof. will pay a visit sometime during the night."
"I'll be on my best behaviour," said Malcolm drily. Smiling, he went on, "This is not a considered medical diagnosis, you understand, but more in the nature of a friendly observation. You look ghastly, Chi. Even your glasses are bloodshot. Why don't you get out of this place for a few hours. Get some fresh air and exer—"
"Fresh air, in this city!" Chiak broke in. "And I could make a few friendly observations, too, and you are just going on duty. You look debilitated and ... Anyway, as a bachelor, I'm probably just feeling jealous."
"Probably," said Malcolm, smiling again. "But you should try for a change of scenery, even a brief one. Since your last promotion you rate a horse, four days in the month, for recreational travel. Next free day you could set off early and—"
"I can't drive the stupid beasts," said Chiak as he climbed stiffly out of his chair and walked towards the door. "Good-night to you."
"Good-night," said Malcolm, taking the empty swivel chair. He tapped for the case histories, projecting the new admissions first and then the latest observations, taken since he had come off duty early this morning, of the other patients.
By the time he was finished Ann had taken over from the Day Sister and was assigning the night staff to their patients.
The cameras showed each changeover as it took place while the repeater screen displayed the tiny alterations in pulse rate and blood pressure caused by the brief presence of three people at the bedside instead of one. Sound pickups brought in the quiet voices of Ann and the relief and relieved nurses and, from every bedside whose occupant was not attached to a ventilator, the low, monotonous ramblings of patients talking endlessly to themselves.
Pain was something a patient was not allowed to suffer if it was possible to relieve it, and nowadays there were very few conditions where the associated discomfort could not be relieved, completely and utterly. But the painkilling drugs, and neomorph in particular, were closely allied to those used by the world's security organisations for the purpose of interrogation in depth. As a result the seriously ill patients, like the prisoners suspected of serious crimes, talked very freely.
The female overdose talked continually without making any sense, which was not surprising considering the amount and variety of medication she had swallowed in her efforts to end her life. Nobody knew why such a remarkably beautiful girl should want to do such a thing. She was almost certainly Upper level and, judging by the results of the immunisation tests, a traveller. But there was always a very good reason why a person decided that it was necessary to commit suicide ...
"Maybe there was no very good reason why she shouldn't," said Ann suddenly, speaking from behind him. "And you were talking to yourself again."
"There was nobody else to talk to," said Malcolm without taking his eyes from the monitors. "Expecting any problems tonight?"
"Nothing special," she replied, moving closer and indicating the screen which showed the multiple gunshot wound in cubicle Four. "Old Mr. Hesketh, there, might not last the night, but again he could linger for a couple of days. He's seventy-three, and with thoracic injuries like that ... Anyway, he has a police guard who is hanging on his every word ..."
Malcolm tapped for an enlargement of the picture from Four, then studied patient Hesketh's face in close-up. Usually a security officer at the bedside meant one of three things—the patient was a VIP, he was an equally important criminal, or he was in possession of important information which he might divulge before termination. But it was obvious that this patient was too fragile and undernourished to be considered either dangerous or very important by the authorities.
Hesketh had information, then, and it had to be very important information to warrant a police guard at his bedside rather than a simple request for the nurse in attendance to tape everything he said.
"... For some reason," Ann was saying, "the theatre did not do a tracheotomy, even though I'd say that he needed as much assistance with his breathing as we could possibly give him. So, no positive pressure ventilation. He can talk but he doesn't seem to be making sense. I think the guard is making him nervous."
"I can understand that," said Malcolm drily.
"As for your girl-friend here," she went on, tapping the picture of the overdose, "she is going to make it. But her nurse, Collins, says that in an hour or so the patient will require moral support and physical restraint, concurrently. Collins will need some extra muscle if the patient does the usual thrashing about, and she suggested that you would probably volunteer since you rarely pass up the chance of wrestling with a beautiful female."
"Nurse Collins," said Malcolm, "should have been a psychologist."
"Nurse Collins is a psychologist," said Ann firmly, "whether the hospital recognises the fact or not. Sometimes I wonder if this place knows how lucky it is in the quality of its staff. Most other hospitals are chronically short of staff while we get the very best available, seemingly from all over the world. And we are certainly getting more foreign patients than is usual."
"The price of fame," said Malcolm. "A good hospital attracts the best staff and the worst patients."
"Oh, be serious for a minute."
"All right," said Malcolm seriously. "What is worrying you? Communications or colour problems?"
"No," said Ann sharply, then smiled. "At least, not once I've learned how to understand some of the accents. But in this ward alone we have three African blacks, an Indian and a South American brown, a Japanese yellow among the nurses. If there was such a thing as a medically qualified green Martian we would probably have it, too. So no, it isn't their colour so much as the fact that they are all such highly trained people. Most of them would rate Senior Sister in their home hospitals, and sometimes I'm not sure who has the rank."
"Surely they don't—"
"Of course they don't," Ann said quickly. "There is no insubordination, no criticism, no unpleasantness of any kind. But I can't afford to make a single stupid move with all that talent around, and I feel as if I'm spending my working life in the middle of a promotion exam."
Malcolm laughed and said, "When was the last time you made a stupid—"
The raucous buzzing of the attention signal made him break off. A red light was flashing on the cubicle Seven monitor but the patient's tell-tales, Malcolm noted, did not show any marked change in the clinical picture. His hand collided with Ann's as they both reached for the acknowledge button.
"Monitor room, Sister speaking," she said briskly.
"Caldwell in Seven," came the reply in an accent redolent of heather and the distant skirling of bagpipes. "This wee lad has pulled out his IV needle. I didn't think he had the strength. It isn't an emergency, but it's fair messing up the bedclothes. Will you tell the doctor, Sister?"
