Futures Past

One THE Monitor Corps scoutship Torrance was engaged on a mission which was both highly important and deadly dull. Like the other units of its flotilla it had been assigned a relatively tiny volume of space in Sector Nine—-one of the many three-dimensional blanks which still appeared in the Federation's charts—to fill in the types and positions of the stars which it contained and the numbers of planets circling them.

Because a ten-man scoutship did not have the facilities for handling a first contact situation, they were forbidden to land or even make a close approach to these planets. They would identify the technologically advanced worlds, if any, by analyzing the radio frequency and other forms of radiation emanating from them. As Major Madden, the vessel's captain, had told them at the start of the mission, (hey were simply going to count lights in the sky and that was all.

Naturally, Fate could not resist a temptation like that...

"Radar, sir," said a voice from the control-room speaker. "We have a blip on the close-approach screen. Distance six miles, closing slowly, non-collision course."

"Lock on the telescope," said the captain, "and let's see it."

"Yes, sir. Repeater screen Two."

On Corps scoutships discipline was strict only when circumstances warranted it, and normally those circumstances did not arise during a mapping mission. As a result the noises coming from the speaker resembled a debate rather than a series of station reports.

"It looks like a ... a bird, sir, with its wings spread."

"A plucked bird."

"Has anyone calculated the chances against materializing this close to an object in interstellar space?"

"I think it's an asteroid, or molten material that congealed by accident into that shape."

"Two light-years from the nearest sun?"

"Quiet, please," said the captain. "Lock on an analyzer and report."

There was a short pause, then: "Estimated size, roughly one-third that of this ship. It's nonreflective, nonmetallic, non-mineral and—"

•

"You're doing a fine job of telling me what it isn't," said the captain dryly.

"It is organic, sir, and ..."

"Yes?"

"And alive."

For a few seconds the control-room speaker and the captain held their breath, then Madden said firmly, "Power room, maneuvering thrust in five minutes. Astrogation, match courses and close to five hundred yards. Ordnance, stand by. Surgeon-Lieutenant Brenner will prepare for EVA."

The debate was over.

During the ensuing four hours Lieutenant Brenner examined the creature, initially at a safe distance and later as closely as his suit would allow. He was sure that the analyzer had been a little too optimistic over what was most likely a not quite frigid corpse. Certainly the thing was no threat because it could not move even if it had wanted to. The covering of what looked like large, flat barnacles and the rock-hard cement which held them together saw to that.

Later, when he was ending his report to the captain, he said. "To sum up, sir, it is suffering from a pretty weird skin condition which got out of control and caused it to be dumped—certainly it didn't fly out here. This implies a race with space-travel who are subject to a disease which scares them so badly that they dump the sufferers into space while they are still alive.

"As you know," he continued, "I don't have the qualifications to treat e-t diseases, and the being is too large to fit into our hold. But we could enlarge our hyperspace envelope and tow it to Sector General.

"That would make a nice break in the mapping routine," he added hopefully, "and I've never been to that place. I'm told that not all the nurses there have six legs." The captain was silent for a moment, then he nodded. "I have," he said. "Some of them have more."

Framed in the rescue tender's aft vision screen the tremendous structure that was Sector Twelve General Hospital hung in space like a gigantic cylindrical Christmas tree. Its thousands of viewports were constantly ablaze with light in the dazzling variety of color and intensity necessary for the visual equipment of its patients and staff, while inside its three hundred and eighty-four levels was reproduced the environments of all the intelligent life-forms known to the Galactic Federation—a biological spectrum ranging from the ultra-frigid methane-breathers through the more normal oxygen- and chlorine-breathing types up to the exotic beings who existed by the direct conversion of hard radiation.

In addition to the patients, whose numbers and physiological classifications were a constant variable, there was a medical and maintenance staff comprising sixty-odd differing life-forms with sixty different sets of mannerisms, body odors and ways of looking at life.

The staff of Sector General prided themselves that no case was too big, too small or too hopeless, and their reputation and facilities were second to none. They were an extremely able, dedicated, but not always serious bunch, and Senior Physician Conway could not rid himself of the idea that on this occasion someone was playing a complicated joke on him.

"Now that I see it," he said dryly, "I still can't believe it."

Pathologist Murchison, who occupied the position beside him, stared at the image of Torrance and its tow without comment. On the control-room ceiling, where it clung with six fragile, sucker-tipped legs, Doctor Prilicla trembled slightly and said, "It could prove to be an interesting and exciting professional challenge, friend Conway."

The musical trills and clicks of the Cinrusskin's speech were received by Conway's translator pack, relayed to the translation computer at the center of the hospital and transmitted back to his earpiece as flat, emotionless English. As expected, the reply was pleasant, polite and extremely non-controversial.

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