Piers Anthony
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Prostho Plus
============

CHAPTER ONE
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Dr. Dillingham was forty-one years old: a conservative, successful
twentieth-century bachelor prosthodontist. His acquaintances thought him
unimaginative; his patients thought he overcharged; his pretty assistant
was secretly in love with him. He was, in short, a typical dentist with
a secure future.

As pride goeth before a fall, so may the typical go before the atypical.

Dillingham was not pleased to see Mrs. Nostrand so early in the morning.
She was overweight, her arches were fallen, her veins varicose, her
manner insufferable. She seemed to be afflicted with most of the
maladies imagined by man, with a single remarkable exception: she had
virtually perfect teeth.

He wondered why she had chosen to inflict herself upon him. Possibly it
was because every other dentist in the area had already informed her
that however common prosthetic restorations might be, they were dictated
by the requirements of health, not fashion.

"Mrs. Nostrand," he began, knowing it was useless, "no ethical
practitioner is going to replace a healthy tooth with a substitute. Our
purpose is to restore the mouth, as far as possible, to its original
state of health. You should be gratified that you have no need of such
service."

"But all my friends have genuine gold inlays!"

Dillingham controlled his temper. "I assure you, Mrs. Nostrand, they're
not as good as nature's original dentin and enamel."

"Mrs. Jones paid four thousand dollars for hers," she said enviously.

He turned away to conceal his disgust. Had it come to this? A running
contest to see whose mouth could carry the most pointless wealth...

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Nostrand," he said with finality.

She stalked out, furious. He almost wished she had needed the work. It
might have been easier to do it than to educate her.

Old Joe Krumpet, a too-regular client, was next. He was seventy and his
teeth seemed to antedate the rest of his body: extremely old and worn.

"'Nother blowout, Doc," he said cheerily. "Just put a patch on her and
turn me loose."

Dillingham looked into Joe's mouth. It was sheer carnage. He wondered
how the man could stray one bite from a liquid diet. There was hardly a
disaster in the manual his teeth hadn't succumbed to over the years.

"Joe, that tooth will have to come out. There isn't enough of the
original structure left to make it functional, and further deterioration
could affect your--"

"Nope. None of that fancy stuff. Just plug her up so she don't hurt no
more. She'll las' as long as I do."

He had a point there, unfortunately. Dillingham repaired the damage as
well as he could, not even attempting to lecture the patient on oral
hygiene. Joe Krumpet brought in his teeth for repair much as he would
his vintage automobile. Who was a mere dentist to inject aesthetic
complexities into his simple framework?

He finished with ten minutes to spare before the next appointment and
retreated to his laboratory for a break. It was going to be one of those
days: college kids who stuffed their mouths with sugar and looked blank
at the mention of a toothbrush; businessmen who "hadn't time" to
undertake precautionary hygienic measures; women so afraid of pain that
they screamed when he brushed a healthy tooth with the mirror. All of
them carelessly throwing away the priceless heritage of good teeth in
their youth, heedless of the far more expensive and less comfortable
substitutes necessitated in later life.

He was suddenly sick of it. Not of the work itself, but of the
intolerable neglect he saw daily. So much of what he did would never be
necessary if only people cared!

The radio was giving the routine details of another interplanetary space
probe. Well, if there were other civilized creatures out there, surely
they would long since have learned to preserve their natural assets! He
visualized a baby bug-eyed monster smiling for the camera: "Look ma--no
cavities for six generations!" Assuming bug-eyed monsters had teeth...

He rose and returned to the operatory, knowing that efficient Miss
Galland would have the third patient properly prepared. At least he was
spared the interminable details. Sure enough, there was a figure in the
chair. As pride before the fall--

Dillingham put on his professional smile, washed his hands, and plucked
a bright metal sealer from the tray. This was a new patient, and-- He
stared.

The face upon the headrest was an alien. It was humanoid, but only
vaguely so. A great flat forehead dropped down to widely spaced yet
narrow eyes, and the nose was a triple slit. The mouth was closed, set
off oddly by thin purple lips.

Before he could substitute a more appropriate expression for the frozen
smile on his own face, there was a noise. He looked up to see a second
creature fiddling with the locking mechanism of the door. The humanoid
must have been standing behind the panel, waiting for him to enter. The
features were similar to those of the reclining creature, but all
Dillingham noticed at the moment was the visible hand. It was grey, and
the fingers appeared to be double-jointed.

Dillingham tried to think of a clever remark that would dispose of the
situation, but his mind remained awkwardly blank. What conceivable
explanation could account for...?

"Gentlemen, there must be some mistake. I'm a dentist, not a plastic
surgeon."

Neither creature laughed. The one at the door straightened up and faced
him silently.

Obviously he was the victim of an elaborate hoax. Nothing on Earth
resembled these creatures. Someone at the local college must have set up
this masquerade, fitting grotesque masks of that realistic flexible
variety over their normal features. This was one of those disruptive
pranks, funny only to the perpetrators. An initiation ritual. But how
had they got past Miss Galland?

"Boys, I have a crowded schedule. Now that you've had your fun--"

The one in the chair opened his mouth.

Dillingham dropped the sealer to the floor. No mask could function as
smoothly as this, yet the mouth was beyond credulity. The orifice was
bone-dry and tongueless, and the teeth--

It was his business to know the normal and abnormal extremes of human
oral anatomy. This far overreached them--but it was without doubt a
genuinely functioning mouth, in a genuine functioning alien face. Since
it was real, and no Earthly jaw contained dentures like these--

He decided not to ask questions whose answers might well be beyond his
comprehension. This was no joke, and this was no longer a conventional
problem. For some reason two aliens--extraterrestrial aliens, for all he
knew--had come to his office to demand some service.

One sat expectantly in the chair. It could hardly be an accident. Why
did anyone come to a dentist?

Somebody had a toothache.

The alien was not properly proportioned for the human recliner, but a
few adjustments sufficed. Dillingham toyed with his instruments,
wondering whether these creatures were dangerous. He couldn't afford to
take a chance--

"Dr. Dillingham," a voice called from the hall. The standing alien
jumped, and something appeared in one hand. These two hadn't uttered a
syllable so far, but they seemed to hear well enough.

"Dr. Dillingham!" the voice repeated more urgently, and the knob turned.
It was Miss Galland. "Are you in there? The door seems to be locked--"

The guard lifted his hand. He held a small object resembling a glass
prism. He pointed it towards the door.

Dillingham didn't wait to find out what the prism was for. "I'm busy at
the moment," he shouted, putting enough irritation into his voice so
that she would realize it was important. "Something has come up. Please
reschedule my next appointment."

Her soft heels retreated, and the alien lowered the prism. Perhaps there
had been no danger--but it did seem best to keep the girl out of it
until he could be sure. The aliens certainly seemed to mean business.

Did they use speech at all? The single glance he had had into the oral
cavity gave him serious doubt that articulation as men knew it was
possible. Still, there had to be some means of communication...

Dillingham returned his attention to his patient. He seemed to be
committed now, though of course he could not actually work on such a
jaw. The mouth opened again and he surveyed it more thoroughly. It was a
fascinating experience.

Four broad incisors lined the front section of the lower jaw, matched by
five molars in the upper. This, at least, was what the teeth would have
been called had they occupied a human mouth.

Biters opposed to grinders? Five to four? What unearthly diet did this
creature exist upon? The overall problem of the alien presence became
subordinate to the professional one. With dentition like this, how could
he even guess at the normal state of the mouth? How would he detect the
problem? And, granted a correct diagnosis, how could he ameliorate the
condition? He knew nothing of the metabolism; he might kill the alien
simply by applying a local anaesthetic. The creature might bleed to
death from a single scratch--if it had blood. Nothing could be taken for
granted.

The standing alien seemed impassive, but remained against the door,
prism levelled. Suppose this were the captain of an alien vessel, and
the patient a valued officer or crewman? It was convenient to think of
these two as such, whatever the truth might be. Perhaps they had been on
an exploratory cruise and had had difficulties that prevented an
immediate return. Possibly their medical specialist had been
incapacitated.

Whatever his reasons, the captain had seen fit to trust his man to the
care of the nearest presumably competent specialist, rather than
postpone the matter or handle it extemporaneously. The fact that the
specialist happened to be of another world didn't seem to make enough
difference to rule out the procedure.

There was food for thought here. Obviously the welfare of the individual
was paramount, in the captain's society, surmounting even the formidable
barriers between separate alien cultures. The individual who would trust
a creature he had never seen before--an Earth dentist--to handle so
precise and intimate a matter as the repair of an oral breakdown...

That individual was either an absolute fool, or had enormous confidence
in his control over the situation.

Dillingham glanced again at the captain. He did not have the aspect of a
fool, and the prism glittered.

Yet the thing was impossible. The threat of a weapon could not create
knowledge where none existed. It could not grant a human being the power
to operate on alien metabolism.

The captain moved, gesturing with the prism. Dillingham immediately
busied himself with the impossible.

The mouth was a paradox. There were no cuspids, no matched sets. Instead
there were regular patterns of planed surfaces that could serve no
conceivable masticatory purpose. The white units were obviously teeth of
some kind, and firm pink gum tissue clothed the base of each unit, but
the manner of the jaws application was a tantalizing riddle.

Dillingham felt as though he were in a surrealist dream. Despite the
intricacies of their derivation--teeth had first been formed from
modified scales of the lip, countless millions of years ago on Earth--he
knew them to be straightforward tools. They were required for any
creature who cut, tore, crushed or ground its food, unless it
specialized into some substitute, as birds had. There was no point in
having teeth at all unless they acted in one or more of these ways, and
cynical Nature neither evolved nor maintained superfluous organs. This
alien's teeth had to be functional, even if that function remained a
riddle to the dentist.

How was he to define the problem? He saw no evidence of decay or
abrasion. Every surface gleamed cleanly white. While he was hardly in a
position to make an accurate diagnosis, all the evidence suggested
health.

He tapped an incisor experimentally. It was solid. All the teeth were
firm and without blemish. Why, then, had this patient come?

Dillingham set down his instruments and stood back. "I can't help you,"
he said, trying to ignore the pointing prism and hoping his tone would
put the message across.

The crewman closed his mouth, stood up, and went to the door. The
captain handed over the prism and approached. Dillingham waited,
uncertainly.

The captain took the chair and opened his mouth. Had they gone to all
this trouble for a routine checkup?

Dillingham shrugged, washed his hands again, and brought out a sterile
set of instruments. There didn't seem to be much he could do except
oblige their whim. They were aliens, and it could be dangerous to cross
them. He looked into the captain's mouth.

Suddenly it all came clear.

The crewman's mouth had been a healthy one. This mouth was not. The same
peculiar pairings were present, the same oddly-angled occlusals--but
several of the back teeth on the left side had badly ravaged lingual
surfaces.

The visitors had anticipated one of his difficulties, so had shown him
the healthy set first, as a model. Now he did have some idea what was
wrong,

"Dr. Dillingham!"

The crewman whirled to aim the prism at Miss Galland's voice. Had half
an hour passed so rapidly? "Emergency!" Dillingham called to her. "I'll
be tied up all afternoon. Handle it as well as you can."

"Yes, Doctor," she replied with only the slightest hint of disapproval.
His present procedure was at best highly irregular; with a real
emergency, he should have brought her into the operatory to help. Miss
Galland was a highly competent dental assistant, but he tended to use
her more and more as a receptionist because she made a much better
impression on recalcitrant patients than he did. She really deserved to
see this astonishing set of teeth--but he still did not dare expose her
to the mercies of such questionable aliens.

Meanwhile, he knew that the problems entailed by his unexplained
cancellations would be tactfully handled.

He probed the first of the damaged teeth: the second bicuspid, for want
of anything resembling a properly descriptive term. The captain jumped;
no doubt about its sensitivity. It looked as though some potent acid had
eaten into the surfaces and stripped away the enamel and much of the
softer dentin beneath (again applying human terms to the un-human). It
had been a recent accident; there was no sign of subsidiary decay. But
the present condition was obviously uncomfortable and probably quite
painful, and certainly constituted a hazard to health.

Dillingham observed that the buccal surfaces had also been etched. Only
an X-ray, that he could not risk on the alien flesh, could establish
possible penetration of the pulp. This was a rough case.

It might be possible for him to repair the damage, or at least cover it
with a protective cast--but only if he could anaesthetize the jaw.
Novocain was out of the question; any drug might be fatal.

The whole thing was ridiculous. "This is as far as I go," Dillingham
said firmly. "I hate to leave you in pain, but my ignorance could kill
you. I'm sorry." He crossed his arms and stood back.

When they saw that he was not going to proceed, the crewman levelled the
prism at him again. The Captain stopped that with a gesture. He stood up
and recovered the instrument. He made sure he had Dillingham's
attention, then aimed it at the wall and flicked a finger.

A spot appeared on the wall. Smoke curled up.

The captain made an adjustment and aimed again. This time a portion of
the wall exploded, leaving a charred hole.

He returned it to the first setting and pointed it at Dillingham. The
message was clear enough.

But what would be their reaction if he botched it? Should he violate his
professional ethics under duress? Dillingham shook his head, sweating.
Perhaps they were bluffing.--

"Dr. Dillingham!"

Oh, no! Miss Galland had come back.

The captain nodded to the crewman, who whirled to unlock the door.

"Judy! Get away!"

"Doctor! What are you--"

Then the door was open and the crewman charged out. Judy Galland
screamed.

Dillingham lunged at the captain, but the officer was ready. The beam
from the prism stabbed savagely into his leg. Dillingham fell, clutching
at the wound.

When the pain abated, he found Miss Galland standing beside him, her
dark hair disarranged. The crewman had the prism again, and was covering
them both.

"Doctor! Are you hurt?"

It was just like her to overlook the incredible in favour of the
commonplace. She was not the fainting type, fortunately. He inspected
his leg.

"Just a burn. It was set on low." He stood up.

The captain resumed his seat. The crewman aimed the prism at the girl.

So much for resistance. The show would go on.

"I don't think they mean any harm, Doctor," Miss Galland said. "They
must be desperate." No hysterics from her; she had adapted to the
situation far more readily than he.

Dillingham approached the patient. He had to quiet the shivering of his
hand as he held a probe. Aliens, heat-beams--this was hardly the
ordinary fare of a dentist.

But the problem of anaesthesia remained. Massive excavation would be
required, and no patient could sit still for that without a deadened
jaw. He studied the situation, perplexed, noting that the crewman had
put away the prism.

The captain produced a small jar of greenish ointment. It seemed that
this contingency had been anticipated. These creatures were not stupid.

Dillingham touched his finger to the substance. There was a slight
prickly sensation, but nothing else. The captain gestured to his mouth.

Dillingham scooped out a fingerful and smeared it carefully along the
gingival surfaces surrounding the affected teeth. The colour darkened.

The captain closed his mouth. "How do they chew?" Miss Galland inquired,
as though this were a routine operation. She had assumed her role of
assistant naturally.

He shrugged. "The moment they take their eyes off you, slip away. We
can't be sure of their motives."

She nodded as the captain reopened his mouth. "I think they're doing
just what we would do, if we had trouble on some other world."

Dillingham refrained from inquiring just what type of literature she
read during her off hours. He probed the raw surface that had been so
sensitive before. No reaction.

So far, so good. He felt professional envy for the simplicity of the
alien anaesthetic. Now that he was committed to the job, he would
complete it as competently as he could. His ethical code had been bent
by the aliens but not broken.

It was a full-scale challenge. He would have to replace the missing and
damaged portions of the teeth with onlays, duplicating in gold as
precisely as he could the planes and angles witnessed in the healthy
set. While it would have helped immensely to know the rationale of this
strange jaw, it was not essential. How many centuries had dentists
operated by hit or miss, replacing losses with wooden teeth and
faithfully duplicating malocclusals and irregularities? The best he
could hope for would be fifty per cent efficiency--in whatever context
it applied--yet if this stood up until the patient returned to his own
world, it sufficed. There was no perfection.

Would a gold alloy react unfavourably with the alien system? He had to
chance it. Gold was the best medium he had to work with, and another
metal would be less effective and more risky. A good cobalt chromium
alloy would be cheaper, but for really delicate work there was no
substitute for gold.

He drilled and polished, adjusting to the old internal convolutions,
while Miss Galland kept the water spray and vacuum in play. He shaped
the healthy base of each tooth into a curve that offered the best
foundation. He bored a deep hole into each for insertion of the
stabilizing platinum-iridium pins. He made a hydrocolloid impression of
the entire lower jaw, since the better part of the reconstruction would
have to take place in the laboratory.

Both aliens started when he used the hydrocolloid, then relaxed
uneasily. Evidently his prosthodontic technique differed from that of
their own world.

"Sorry," he said, as much to himself as to them. "Since I am not
familiar with your methods, I am constrained to rely upon my own. I
can't rebuild a tooth by guesswork."

"That's telling them," Miss Galland agreed.

He needed a model of both sides of the jaw because it was bilaterally
symmetrical. A mirror-image reproduction of the right side might
reasonably do for the left. He ignored the upper jaw. He knew nothing of
the proper interaction of these surfaces, so the opposing pattern could
only confuse him. He didn't want human preconceptions to distort the
alien pattern.

But his curiosity about the way those incredible teeth functioned was
hard to suppress.

He worked loose the hardened cast. He applied a temporary layer of
amalgam, so that the jaw would not be sensitive when the anaesthetic
wore off. Then he had to explain to the aliens by means of pantomime
that this was not the end product of his endeavours.

Miss Galland brought a plaster model of human dentures, and he pointed
to the cut-away teeth and lifted out the mock reconstructions, then
gestured towards the laboratory. After several repetitions the captain
seemed to get the idea. Dillingham led the way, with captain, Miss
Galland and crewman following in that order. The major portion of the
job was coming up.

Patients seldom saw the lab. Few of them were aware of the enormous and
precise labours that went into the simplest inlay, onlay or crown. This
time, at least, he would have an attentive audience for his
prosthodontic art.

Dillingham rinsed the impression immediately and immersed it in a two
per cent solution of potassium sulphate while Miss Galland set up the
equipment. There wasn't much else she could do, because special skill
was required for the early stages.

The captain watched the routine with what Dillingham was sure was
amazement. The aliens knew no more about the realities of dentistry than
local people did! But what had they expected? Surely the techniques of
North Nebula--to invent a home for the visitors--had points of
similarity. Physical laws applied rigorously, whatever the language or
culture.

He filled the impression with a commercial stone preparation, vibrated
out the bubbles, and inserted the dowels and loops for individual
handling of the teeth. While the die set, he simulated the remaining
steps for the captain: the intricate wax mock-up of the onlay pattern
for each tooth; the attachment of the sprue, so that the pattern and
subsequent cast could be handled effectively; the investment, or
formation of a durable impression around the wax pattern; burnout, to
free the investment of wax and leave a clear mould for the liquid metal;
casting (he didn't even try to explain about the problems of expansion
and contraction of gold and cast): and finally the pickling, finishing
and polishing of each unit.

The captain's eyes seemed glazed, though the procedures were elementary.
Here in the lab Dillingham was master, whatever the larger situation.

At last he manipulated the hands of the wall clock to show how many
hours would be required for all this. He assumed that if the Nebulites
knew enough about Earth to locate a specialist when they needed one,
they should have mastered local timekeeping conventions.

The captain was not happy. Had he thought that an onlay was the work of
a few minutes? Probably, like most patients, he hadn't thought about it
at all. Everybody knew dentists spaced out the time between appointments
merely to boost their exorbitant prices! Ha (brother!) ha!

The captain produced what appeared to be a hard plastic rod and chewed
it meditatively on his good side. Dillingham was afraid at first that it
was another weapon, but saw that it was not. Well, every species
doubtless had its vices and mannerisms, and this was certainly better
than chewing tobacco or gobbling candy.

The patient passed the rod to the crewman, who glanced at it with
interest but did not choose to add any toothmarks of his own. No
conversation passed between them, but abruptly the captain left. The
crewman took a seat and kept the prism ready.

Evidently they did not intend to leave the captives to their own devices
while the onlay was in preparation.

"They don't miss any bets," Miss Galland said ruefully.

Dillingham shrugged and bent to his work. It seemed that the surest way
to get rid of the visitors was to complete the operation. He sawed his
die into four separate segments, one for each damaged tooth, and plunged
into the complex portion of the job. The wax he applied had to be shaped
into the exact pattern of the desired cast. This, not the original
tooth, was the actual model. The die determined the juncture with the
living tooth, but the artistry lay in sculpting the upper surface of the
wax into a serviceable and aesthetic duplicate of the healthy original.

He set the cruder plaster cast of the captain's jaw before him and began
the most difficult construction of his career. It was not an image he
had to make, but a mirror image, and his reflexes were hardly geared to
it. Each of the four patterns would take several hours.

Night fell as he completed the second pattern. A new alien came to
replace the crewman, but there was no chance to escape. They chewed
sociably on rods, exchanged them, and parted.

"Dr. Dillingham!" Miss Galland exclaimed. "That's how they talk! They
make marks like that old-wedge-writing."

It made sense. "Cuneiform," he agreed. That explained what the teeth
were for! But the revelation, while satisfying intellectually, didn't
help them to escape. The new guard was as vigilant as the first.

Night passed. Miss Galland slept on the emergency cot while Dillingham
kept working. They both knew that help was unlikely to come, because the
aliens had shown up on Friday and there would be no appointments for the
weekend. Dillingham lived alone, and Miss Galland's room-mate happened
to be on vacation. The captain had been quite lucky.

Something else occurred to him. "Miss Galland!" She sat up sleepily.
"Since these creatures don't use sound to talk with, they probably don't
associate it with communication at all!"

"Have you stayed up all night, Doctor?" she inquired solicitously, "You
must be tired."

"Listen to me! We can plan our escape, and they won't realize what we're
doing. If I can distract the guard's attention--"

She came alive. "Now I follow you. We could have telephoned long ago,
if... but how can we get him to--"

He explained. They worked it out in detail while he poured thick jel
around the wax and vibrated the cup. She slowly opened the windows, then
set up a chair in front of one and sat down. One agile flip could tumble
her into the back lot--if the guard were off-guard.

The work continued. The guards changed again, and the new one did not
realize that the window was open. Dillingham poured melted gold into the
inverted hollows of the final mould. The alien's attention was taken up
by the sight of the hot metal; he knew that was dangerous.

"Now," Dillingham cried, as he plunged the hot cast into cold water.
Steam puffed up, bringing the guard to his feet--and Miss Galland was
gone.

Dillingham finished with a flourish. "How's that for a set of castings!"
he cried. "Not to mention a slick escape," he added as the guard turned
to discover what had happened. "The police will be here within half an
hour."

The alien had been tricked, but he was no fool. He wasted no time in a
futile chase after the girl. He pointed the prism at Dillingham, fired
one warning beam that blasted the wall beside him, and gestured towards
the door.

Two blocks away they came to an overgrown lot. Hidden within the thick
brush was a shining metal cylinder, large enough to hold several men.

"Now wait a minute!" Dillingham exclaimed as a port swung open. But
already he was coming to understand that the clever alien captain had
anticipated this situation also, and had come prepared.

The cooling onlays burned his hand. Perhaps the aliens had never
intended to let the Earth-dentist go. If they needed help once, why not
again, during the long voyage in space? He had demonstrated his
proficiency, and by his trick to free Miss Galland he had forfeited any
claim to mercy they might have entertained. The captain meant to have
his restorations, and the job would be finished even if it had to be
done en route to--

The where? The North Nebula?

Dr. Dillingham, Earth's first spacefaring prosthodontist, was about to
find out.

CHAPTER TWO
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The Enen--for Dr. Dillingham preferred the acronym to "North Nebula
Humanoid Species"--rushed up and chewed out a message-stick with
machine-like dispatch. He handed it to Dillingham and stood by
anxiously.

This was an alien world, and he was alone among aliens, but this was his
laboratory. He was master, in his restricted fashion, and the Enens
treated him with flattering deference. In fact he felt more like king
than captive.

He popped the stick into the hopper of the transcoder. "Emergency," the
little speaker said. "Only you can handle this, Doctor!"

"You'll have to be more specific, Holmes," he said, and watched the
transcoder type this on to another stick. Since the Enens had no spoken
language, and he had not learned to decipher their tooth-dents visually,
the transcoder was the vital link in communication.

The names he applied to the Enens were facetious. These galactics had no
names in their own language, and comprehended his humour in this regard
no more than had his patients on distant Earth. But at least they were
industrious folk, and very clever at physical science. It was surprising
that they were so backward in dentistry.

The Enen read the translation and put it between his teeth for a hurried
footnote. It was amazing, Dillingham thought, how effectively they could
flex their jaws for minute variations in depth and slant. Compared to
this, the human jaw was a clumsy portcullis.

The message went back through the machine. "It's a big toothache that no
one can cure. You must come."

"Oh, come now, Watson," Dillingham said, deeply flattered. "I've been
training your dentists for several months now, and they're experienced
and intelligent specialists. They know their maxillaries from their
mandibulars. As a matter of fact, some of them are a good deal more
adept now than I, except in the specific area of metallic restorations.
Surely--"

But the Enen grabbed the stick before any more could be imprinted by the
machine's chattering jaws. "Doctor--this is an alien. It's the son of a
high muck-a-muck of Gleep." The terms, of course, were the ones he had
programmed to indicate any ruling dignitary of any other planet. He
wondered whether he would be well advised to substitute more serious
designations before someone caught on. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would see
about it. "You, Doctor, are our only practising exodontist."

Ah--now it was coming clear. He was a dentist from a far planet, ergo he
must know all about off-world dentition. The Enen's nave faith was
touching. Well, if this were a job they could not handle, he could at
least take a look at it. The "alien" could hardly have stranger
dentition than the Enens had themselves, and success might represent a
handsome credit towards his eventual freedom. It would certainly be more
challenging than drilling his afternoon class in Applications of
Supercolloid.

"I'm pretty busy with that new group of trainees..." he said. This was
merely a dodge to elicit more information, since the Enens tended to
omit important details. Their notions of importance differed here and
there from his own.

"The muck-a-muck has offered fifty pounds of frumpstiggle for this one
service," the Enen replied.

Dillingham whistled, and the transcoder dutifully printed the
translation. Frumpstiggle was neither money nor merchandise. He had
never been able to pin down exactly what it was, but for convenience he
thought of it as worth its exact weight in gold: $35 per ounce, $560 per
pound. The Enens did not employ money as such, but their avid barter for
frumpstiggle seemed roughly equivalent. His commission on fifty pounds
would amount to a handsome dividend, and would bring his return to Earth
that much closer.

"Very well, Holmes. Bring in the patient."

The Enen became agitated. "The high muck-a-muck's family can't leave the
planet. You must go to Gleep."

He had half expected something of this sort. The Enens gallivanted from
planet to planet and system to system with dismaying nonchalance.
Dillingham had not yet become accustomed to the several ways in which
they far excelled Earth technology, nor to the abrupt manner of their
transactions. True, he owed his presence here to an oral injury of one
of their space captains, who had simply walked into the nearest dental
office for service, liked what he found, and brought the dentist home.
But there was a difference between knowing and accepting.

Dillingham was in effect the property of the Enens--he who had dreamed
only of conventional retirement in Florida. He was no intrepid spaceman,
no seeker of fortune, and would never have chosen such unsettling
galactic intercourse. But now that the choice had been made for him--

"I'll pack my bag," he said.

Gleep turned out to be a water world. The ship splashed down beside a
floating way station, and they were transferred to a tank-like amphibian
vehicle. It rolled into the tossing ocean and paddled along somewhat
below the surface.

Dillingham had read somewhere that intelligent life could not evolve in
water, because of the inhibiting effect of the liquid medium upon the
motion of specialized appendages. Certainly the fish of Earth had never
amounted to much.

How could primitive swimmers hope to engage in interstellar commerce?

Evidently that particular theory was erroneous, elsewhere in the galaxy.
Still, he wondered just how the Gleeps had circumvented the rapid-motion
barrier. Did they live in domes under the ocean?

He hoped the patient would not prove to be too alien. Presumably it had
teeth--but that might be the least of the problems. Fortunately he could
draw on whatever knowledge the Enens had, and he had also made sure to
bring along a second transcoder keyed to Gleep. It was awkward to carry
two machines, but too much could be lost in retranslation if he had to
get the Gleep complaints relayed through the Enens.

A monstrous fish-shape loomed beyond the porthole. The thing spied the
sub, advanced, and oped a cavernous maw. "Look out!" Dillingham yelled.

The Enen glanced indifferently at the message-stick and chomped a casual
reply. "Everything is in order, Doctor."

"But a leviathan is about to engulf us!"

"Naturally. That's a Gleep."

Dillingham stared out, stunned. No wonder the citizens couldn't leave
the planet! It was a matter of physics, not social convention.

The vessel was already inside the colossal mouth, and the jaws were
closing. "You--you mean this is the patient?" But he already had his
answer. Damn those little details the Enens forgot to mention. A whale!

The mouth was shut now and the headlight of the sub revealed
encompassing mountains of flexing flesh. The treads touched
land--probably the tongue--and took hold. A minute's climb brought them
into a great domed air chamber.

They halted beside what reminded him of the white cliffs of Dover. The
hatch sprang open and the Enens piled out.

None of them seemed concerned about the possibility that the creature
might involuntarily swallow, so Dillingham put that notion as far from
his mind as he was able.

"This is the tooth," the Enen's message said. The driver consulted a map
and pointed to a solid marble boulder.

Dillingham contemplated it with awe. The tooth stood about twelve feet
high, counting only the distance it projected from the spongy gingival
tissue. Much more would be below, of course.

"I see," he said, able to think of nothing more pertinent at the moment.
He looked at the bag in his hand, that contained an assortment of
needle-pointed probes, several ounces of instant amalgam, and sundry
additional staples. In the sub was a portable drill with a heavy-duty
needle attachment that could excavate a cavity a full inch deep.

Well, they had described it as a "big" toothache. He just hadn't been
alert.

The Enens brought forth a light extensible ladder and leaned it against
the tooth. They set his drill and transcoders beside it. "Summon us when
you're finished," their parting message said.

Dillingham felt automatically for the electronic signal in his pocket.
If he lost that, he might never get out of here! By the time he was
satisfied, the amphibian was gone.

He was alone in the mouth of a monster.

Well, he'd been in awkward situations before. He tried once again to
close his mind to the horrors that lurked about him and ascended the
ladder, holding his lantern aloft.

The occlusal surface was about ten feet in diameter. It was slightly
concave and worn smooth. In the centre was a dark trench about two feet
wide and over a yard long. This was obviously the source of the
irritation. He walked over to it and looked down. A putrid stench sent
him gasping back. Yes--this was the cavity! It seemed to range from a
foot in depth at the edges to four feet in the centre.

"That," he observed aloud, "is a case of dental caries for the record
book." The English/Enen transcoder printed a stick. He turned it off,
irritated.

Unfortunately, he had no record book. All he possessed was a useless bag
of implements and a smarting nose. But there was nothing for it but to
explore the magnitude of the decay. It probably extended literally
within the pulp, so that the total infected area was considerably larger
than that visible from above. What showed here was merely a vertical
fissure, newly formed. He would have to check directly.

He forced himself to breath regularly, though his stomach danced in
protest. He stepped down into the cavity.

The muck was ankle-deep and the miasma overpowering. He summoned the
sick dregs of his willpower and squatted to poke into the bottom with
one finger. Under the slime, the surface was like packed earth. He was
probably still inches from the material of the living tooth; these were
merely layers of crushed and spoiling food.

He recalled long-ago jokes about eating apple-compote, pronouncing the
word with an internal S. Compost. It was not a joke any more.

He located a dryer area and scuffed it with one shoe. Some dark flakes
turned up, but nothing significant. He wound up and drove his toe into
the wall as hard as he could.

There was a thunderous roar. He clapped his hands to his ears as the air
pressure increased explosively. His foot slipped and he fell into the
reeking centre-section of the trench.

An avalanche of muck descended on him. Above, hundreds of tons of flesh
and bone and gristle crashed down imperiously, seemingly ready to crush
every particle of matter within its compass into further compost.

The jaws were closing.

Dillingham found himself face down in sickening garbage, his ears
ringing from the atmospheric compression and his body quivering from the
mechanical one. The lantern, miraculously, was undamaged and bright, and
his limbs were sound. He sat up, brushed some of the sludge from face
and arms, and grabbed for the slippery light.

He was trapped between clenched jaws--inside the cavity.

Frantically he activated the signal. After an interminable period that
he endured in mortal fear of suffocation, the ponderous upper jaw
lifted. He scrambled out, dripping.

The bag of implements was now a thin layer of colour on the surface of
the tooth. "Perfect occlusal," he murmured professionally, while shaking
in reaction to the realization that his fall had narrowly saved him from
a similar fate.

The ladder was gone. Anxious to remove himself from the dangerous biting
surface as quickly as possible, he prepared to jump--and saw a gigantic
mass of tentacles reaching for his portable drill near the base of the
tooth. Each tentacle appeared to be thirty feet long, and as strong and
sinuous as a python's tail.

The biting surface no longer seemed like such a bad place. Dillingham
remained where he was and watched the drill being carried into the
darkness of the mouth's centre.

In a few more minutes the amphibian vehicle appeared. The Enen driver
emerged, chewed a stick, presented it. Dillingham reached for the
transcoder--and discovered that it was the wrong one. All he had now was
the Gleep interpreter.

Chagrined, he fiddled with it. At least he could set it to play back
whatever the Gleep prince might have said. Perhaps there had been
meaning in that roar...

There had been. "OUCH!" the machine exclaimed.

The next few hours were complicated. Dillingham now had to speak to the
Enens via the Gleep muck-a-muck (after the episode in the cavity, he
regretted this nomenclature acutely), who had been summoned for a
diagnostic conference. This was accomplished by setting up shop in the
creature's communications department.

The compartment was actually an offshoot from the Gleep lung, deep
inside the body. It was a huge internal air space with sensitive
tentacles bunching from the walls. This was the manner in which the
dominant species of this landless planet had developed fast-moving
appendages whose manipulation led eventually to tools and intelligence.
An entire technology had developed--inside the great bodies.

"So you see," he said. "I have to have an anaesthetic that will do the
job, and canned air to breathe while I'm working, and a power drill that
will handle up to an eighteen inch depth of rock. Also a sledgehammer
and a dozen wedges. And a derrick and the following quantities of--" He
went on to make a startling list of supplies.

The transcoder sprouted half a dozen tentacles as he talked and waved
them in a dizzying semaphore. After a moment a group of the wall
tentacles waved back. "It shall be accomplished," the muck-a-muck's
reply came.

Dillingham wondered what visual signal had projected the "ouch" back in
the patient's mouth. Then it came to him: the tentacles that had
absconded with his drill and perhaps fragments of his other transcoder
were extensions of the creature's tongue! Naturally they talked.

"One other thing: while you're procuring my equipment, I'd like to see a
diagram of the internal structure of your molars."

"Structure?" The tentacles were agitated.

"The pattern of enamel, dentin and pulp, or whatever passes for it in
your system. A schematic drawing would do nicely. Or a sagittal section
showing both the nerves and the bony socket. That tooth is still quite
sensitive, which means the nerve is alive. I wouldn't want to damage it
unnecessarily."

"We have no such diagrams."

Dillingham was shocked. "Don't you know the anatomy of your teeth? How
have you repaired them before?"

"We have never had trouble with them before. We have no dentists. That
is why we summoned you."

He paced the living floor of the chamber, amazed. How was it possible
for such intelligent and powerful creatures to remain so ignorant of
matters vital to their well-being? Never had trouble before? That cavity
had obviously been festering for many years.

Yet he had faced similar ignorance daily during his Earthly practice.
"I'll be working blind, in that case," he said at last. "You must
understand that while I'll naturally do my best, I can not guarantee to
save the tooth."

"We understand," the Gleep muck-a-muck replied contritely.

Back on the tooth (after a stern warning to Junior to keep those jaws
apart no matter how uncomfortable things might become), equipped with
face mask, respirator, elbow-length gloves and hip boots, Dillingham
began the hardest labour of his life. It was not intellectually
demanding or particularly intricate--just hard. He was vaporizing the
contaminated walls of the cavity with the beam of a thirty-pound laser
drill, and in half an hour his arms were dead tired.

There was lateral extension of the infection. He had to wedge himself
into a rotting, diminishing cavern, wielding the beam at arm's length
before him. He had to twist the generator sidewise to penetrate every
branching side pocket, all the while frankly terrified lest the beam
slip and touch part of his body. He was playing with fire--a fiery beam
that could slice off his arm and puff it into vapour in one careless
sweep.

At least, he thought sweatily, he wasn't going to have to use the
sledgehammer here. When he ordered the drill he had expected a
mechanical one similar to those pistons used to break up pavement on
Earth. To the Gleep, however, a drill was a tapered laser beam. This was
indeed far superior to what he had had in mind. Deadly but
serendipitous.

Backbreaking hours later it was done. Sterile walls of dentin lined the
cavity on every side. Yet this was only the beginning.

Dillingham, after a short nap right there in the now-aseptic cavity,
roused himself to make careful measurements. He had to be certain that
every alley was widest at the opening, and that none were too sharply
twisted. Wherever the measurements were unsatisfactory, he drilled away
healthy material until the desired configuration had been achieved. He
also adjusted the beam for "Polish" and wiped away the roughnesses.

He signalled the Enen sub and indicated by gestures that it was time for
the tank of supercolloid. And he resolved that next time he stepped
off-planet, he would bring a trunk-ful of spare transcoders. He had
problems enough without translation difficulties! At least he had been
able to make clear that they had to send a scout back to the home planet
to pick up the bulk supplies.

Supercolloid was a substance developed by the ingenious Enens in
response to his exorbitant specifications of several months before. He
had once entertained the notion that if he were slightly unreasonable,
they would ship him back to Earth. Instead they had met the
specifications exactly and increased his assessed value because he was
such a sophisticated practitioner. This neatly added years to his
projected term of captivity. After that he became more careful. But the
substance remained a prosthodontist's dream.

Supercolloid was a fluid stored under pressure that set rapidly when
released. It held its shape indefinitely without measurable distortion,
yet was as flexible as rubber. It was ideal for difficult impressions,
since it could yield while being removed and spring immediately back to
the proper shape. This saved time and reduced error. At 1300 degrees
Fahrenheit it melted suddenly into the thin, transparent fluid again.
This was its most important property.

Dillingham was about to make a very large cast. To begin the complex
procedure, he had to fill every crevice of the cavity with colloid.
Since the volume of the excavation came to forty cubic feet, and
supercolloid weighed fifty pounds per cubic foot when set, he needed a
good two thousand pounds.

A full ton--to fill a single cavity. "Think big," he told himself.

He set up the tank and hauled the long hose into the pit. Once more he
crawled head-first into the lateral expansion, no longer requiring the
face mask. He aimed the nozzle without fear and squirted the foamy green
liquid into the farthest off-shoot, making certain that no air spaces
remained. He backed off a few feet and filled the other crevices, but
left the main section open.

In half an hour the lateral branch had been simplified considerably. It
was now a deep, flat crack without offshoots. Dillingham put away the
nozzles and crawled in with selected knives and brushes. He cut away
projecting colloid, leaving each filling flush with the main crevice
wall, and painted purple fixative over each surface.

Satisfied at last, he trotted out the colloid hose again and started the
pump. This time he opened the nozzle to full aperture and filled the
main crevice, backing away as the foam threatened to engulf him. He
certainly didn't want to become part of the filling! Soon all of the
space was full. He smoothed the green wall facing the main cavity and
painted it in the same manner as the off-shoots.

Now he was ready for the big one. So far he had used up about eight
cubic feet of colloid, but the gaping centre pit would require over
thirty feet. He removed the nozzle entirely and let the tank heave
itself out.

"Turn it off!" he yelled to the Enen by the pump as green foam bulged
gently over the rim. One ton of supercolloid filled the tooth, and he
was ready to carve it down and insert the special plastic loop in the
centre.

The foam continued to pump. "I said TURN IT OFF!" he cried again. Then
he remembered that he had no transcoder for Enen. They could not
comprehend him.

He flipped the hose away from the filling and aimed it over the edge of
the tooth. He had no way to cut off the flow himself, since he had
removed the nozzle. There could not be much left in the tank.

A rivulet of green coursed down the tooth and over the pink gum tissue,
travelling towards the squid-like tongue. The tentacles reached out,
grasping the foam as it solidified. They soon became festooned in green.

Dillingham laughed--but not for long. There was a steam-whistle sigh
followed by a violent tremor of the entire jaw. "I'm going to...
sneeze," the Gleep transcoder said, sounding fuzzy. The colloid was
interfering with the articulation of the tongue and triggering a reflex.

A sneeze! Suddenly Dillingham realized what that would mean to him and
the Enen crew.

"Get under cover!" he shouted at the Enens below, again forgetting that
they couldn't comprehend the warning. But they had already grasped the
significance of the tremors, and were piling into the sub frantically.

"Hey--wait for me!" But he was too late. The air howled past with the
titanic intake of breath. There was a terrible pause.

Dillingham lunged for the mound of colloid and dug his fingers into the
thickening substance. "Keep your jaws apart!" he yelled at the Gleep,
praying that it could still pick up the message. "KEEP THEM OPEN!"

The sound of a tornado raged out of its throat. He buried his face in
green as the hurricane struck, tearing mercilessly at his body. His arms
were wrenched cruelly; his fingers ripped through the infirm colloid,
slipping...

The wind died, leaving him grasping at the edge of the tooth. He had
survived it! The jaws had not closed.

He looked up. The upper molars hung only ten feet above, visible in the
light from the charmed lamp hooked somehow to his foot.

He was past the point of reaction. "Open, please," he called in his best
operative manner, willing the transcoder to be still in the vicinity. He
peered over the edge.

There was no sign of the sub. The colloid tank, with its discharging
hose, was also gone.

He took a walk across the neighbouring teeth, looking for whatever there
was to see. He was appalled at the amount of decalcification and
outright decay in evidence. This Gleep child would shortly be in pain
again, unless substantial restorative work were done immediately.

But in a shallow cavity--one barely a foot deep--he found the
transcoder, undamaged. "It's an ill decalcification that bodes nobody
good," he murmured, retrieving it.

The amphibious sub reappeared and disgorged somewhat shaken passengers.
Dillingham marched back over the rutted highway and joined them. But the
question still nagged at his mind: how could the caries he had observed
be reconciled with the muck-a-muck's undoubtedly sincere statement that
there had never been dental trouble before? What had changed?

He carved the green surface into an appropriate pattern and carefully
applied his fixative. He was ready for the next step.

Now the derrick was set up and brought into play. Dillingham guided its
dangling hook into the eyelet embedded in the colloid and signalled the
Enen operator to lift. The chain went taut; the mass of solidified foam
eased grandly out of its socket and hung in the air, an oddly-shaped
boulder.

He turned his attention to the big crevice-filling. He screwed in a
corkscrew-eyelet and arranged a pulley so that the derrick could act on
it effectively. The purple fixative had prevented the surface of the
main impression from attaching to that of the subsidiary one, just as it
was also protecting the several small branches within.

There was no particular difficulty. In due course every segment of the
colloid impression was marked and laid out in the makeshift laboratory
he had set up near the waterline of the Gleep's mouth. They were ready
for one more step.

The tank of prepared investment arrived. This, too, was a special
composition. It remained fluid until triggered by an electric jolt,
whereupon it solidified instantly. Once solid, it could not be affected
by anything short of demolition by sledgehammer.

Dillingham pumped a quantity into a great temporary vat. He attached a
plastic handle to the smallest impression, dipped it into the vat,
withdrew it entirely covered by white batter and touched the electrode
to it. He handed the abruptly solid object to the nearest Enen and took
up the next.

Restorative procedure on Gleep differed somewhat from established
Earthly technique. All it took was a little human imagination and a lot
of Enen technology.

The octopus-tongue approached while he worked. It reached for him. "Get
out of here or I'll cram you into the burn-out furnace!" he snapped into
the transcoder. The tongue retreated.

The major section was a problem. It barely fitted into the vat, and a
solid foot of it projected over the top. He finally had the derrick
lower it until it bumped bottom, then raise it a few inches and hold it
steady. He passed out brushes, and he and the Enen crew went to work
slopping the goo over the top and around the suspended hook.

He touched the electrode to the white monster. The derrick lifted the
mass, letting the empty vat fall free. Yet another stage was done.

Two ovens were employed for the burn-out. Each was big enough for a man
to stand within. They placed the ends of the plastic rods into special
holders and managed to fit all of the smaller units into one oven,
fastening them into place by means of a heat-resisting framework. The
main chunk sat in the other oven, propped upside-down.

They sealed the ovens and set the thermostats for 2000 degrees.
Dillingham lay down into the empty vat and slept.

Three hours later burn-out was over. Even supercolloid took time to melt
completely when heated in a 1500 pound mass. But now the green liquid
had been drained into reservoirs and sealed away, while the smaller
quantities of melted plastic were allowed to collect in a disposal vat.
The white investments were hollow shells, open only where the plastic
rods had projected.

The casting was the most spectacular stage. Dillingham had decided to
use gold, though worried that its high specific gravity would
overbalance the Gleep jaw. It was impossible under present conditions to
arrange for a gold-plated, matching-density filling, and he was not
familiar enough with other metals to be sure they could be adapted to
his purpose. The expansion coefficient of his investment matched that of
gold exactly, for example; anything else would solidify into the wrong
size because of contraction while cooling.

Gold, at any rate, was nothing to the muck-a-muck. Gleeps refined it
through their gills, extracting it from the surrounding water in any
quantity required.

The crucible arrived: a self-propelled boiler-like affair. They piled
hundred-pound ingots of precise gold alloy into the hopper, while the
volcanic innards of the crucible rumbled and belched and melted
everything to rich bright liquid.

A line of Enens carried the smaller investments, which were shaped
inside exactly like the original impressions, to the spigot and held
them with tongs while the fluid fortune poured in. These were carefully
deposited in the vat, now filled with cold water.

The last cast, of course, was the colossal vat-shaped one. This was
simply propped up under the spigot while the tired crew kept feeding in
ingots.

By the time this cast had been poured, twenty-four tons of gold had been
used in all.

While the largest chunk was being hauled to the ocean inside the
forepart of the mouth, Dillingham broke open the smaller investments and
laid out the casts according to his chart of the cavity. He gave each a
minimum of finishing; on so gross a scale, it could hardly make much
difference.

The finished casts weighed more than twenty times as much as the
original impressions had, and even the smallest ones were distinctly
awkward to manoeuvre into place. He marked them, checked off their
positions on his chart, and had the Enens ferry them up with the
derrick. At the other end, he manhandled each into its proper place,
verified its fit and position, and withdrew it to paint it with cement.
No part of this filling could come loose in action.

Once again the branching cavern lost its projections, this time
permanently, as each segment was secured and severed from its projecting
sprue. He kept the sprues--the handles of gold, the shape of the
original plastic handles--on until the end, because otherwise there
would have been no purchase on the weighty casts. He had to retain some
means to move them.

The derrick lowered the crevice-piece into the cavity. Two Enens pried
it in with power crowbars. Dillingham stood by and squirted cement over
the mass as it slid reluctantly into the hole.

It was necessary to attach a heavy weight to the derrick-hook and swing
it repeatedly against the four-ton cast in order to tamp it in all the
way.

At last it was time for the major assembly. Nineteen tons of gold
descended-slowly into the hole while they dumped quarts of liquid cement
into a pool below. The cast touched bottom and settled into place, while
the cement bubbled up around the edges and overflowed.

They danced a little jig on top of the finished filling--just to tamp it
in properly, Dillingham told himself, for he considered himself to be
too sedate to dance. He wished that a fraction of its value in
Earth-terms could be credited to his account. The job was over.

"A commendable performance," the high muck-a-muck said. "My son is
frisking about in his pen like a regular tadpole and eating well."

Dillingham remembered what he had seen during the walk along the
occlusal surfaces. "I'm afraid he won't be frisking long. In another
year or two he'll be feeling half a dozen other caries. Decay is
rampant."

"You mean this will happen again?" The tentacles waved so violently that
the transcoder stuttered.

Dillingham decided to take the fish by the tail. "Are you still trying
to tell me that no member of your species has suffered dental caries
before this time?"

"Never."

This still did not make sense. "Does your son's diet differ in any
important respect from yours, or from that of other Gleeptads?"

"My son is a prince!"

"Meaning that he can eat whatever he wants, whether it is good for him
or not?"

The Gleep paused. "He gets so upset if he doesn't have his way. He's
only a baby--hardly three centuries old."

Dillingham was getting used to differing standards. "Do you feed him
delicacies--refined foods?"

"Naturally. Nothing but the best. I wish we had been able to afford such
galactic imports when I was a tad!"

Dillingham sighed. "Muck-a-muck, my people also had perfect teeth--until
they began consuming sweets and overly refined foods. Then dental caries
became the most common disease among them. You're going to have to curb
your child's appetite."

"I couldn't." He could almost read the agitation of the tentacles
without benefit of translation. "Doctor, he'd throw a terrible tantrum."

Dillingham had expected this reaction. He had encountered it many times
on Earth. "In that case, you'd better begin training a crew of dentists.
Your son will require constant attention."

"But we can't do such work ourselves. We have no suitable appendages,
externally."

"Import some dentists, then. You have no acceptable alternative."

The creature signalled a sigh. "You make a convincing case." The
tentacles relaxed while it considered. Suddenly they came alive again.
"Enen--it seems we need a permanent technician. Will you sell us this
one?"

Dillingham gaped, horrified at the thought of all that garbage in the
patient's jaw. Surely they couldn't--

"Sell him!" the Enen chief replied angrily. Dillingham wondered how he
was able to understand the words, then realized that his transcoder was
picking up the Gleep signals translated by the other machine. From Enen
to Gleep to English, via paired instruments. Why hadn't he thought of
that before?

"This is a human being," the Enen continued indignantly. "A member of an
intelligent species dwelling far across the galaxy. He is the only
exodontist in this entire sector of space, and a fine upstanding fellow
at that. How dare you make such a crass suggestion!"

Bless him! Dillingham had always suspected that his hosts were basically
creatures of principle.

"We're prepared to offer a full ton of superlative-grade
frumpstiggle..." the muck-a-muck said enticingly.

"A full ton?" The Enens were aghast. Then recovering: "True, the
Earthman has taught us practically all he knows. We could probably get
along without him now..."

"Now wait a minute!" Dillingham shouted. But the bargaining continued
unabated.

After all--what is the value of a man, compared to that of frumpstiggle?

DENTAL ASSISTANT / HYGIENIST / LIGHT BOOKKEEPING QUALIFIED EXPERIENCED
UNATTACHED MUST TRAVEL.

Judy Galland read the strange ad again. It had not been placed by any
agency she recognized, and there was no telephone number. Just an
address in a black neighbourhood. It hardly looked promising--but she
was desperate. She shrugged and caught a bus.

She concentrated on the ad as she rode, as though it had further secrets
to yield. She was qualified: she was a capable dental assistant with
three years' experience in the office of a good dentist, and she was
also a hygienist. She knew that few girls were both, and many would not
touch the clerical end of it at all. She was single and willing to
travel across the world if need be. She was twenty-six years old and
looked it. She got along well with people and seldom lost her temper.

So why couldn't she get a job?

The bus jolted heavily over a set of tracks, shaking her loose from this
pointless line of thinking. She knew what her problem was: she had
worked for Dr. Dillingham, and Dr. Dillingham had disappeared
mysteriously. A construction worker might fall off a beam and get
killed, and nobody blamed his co-workers. A big-game hunter might get
eaten by the game, yet his bearers could find similar employment
elsewhere. A politician might get removed from office for malfeasance,
while his loyal staff stepped into better positions. But just let one
small-town dentist vanish--

She shook her head. That was inaccurate too. It was her own fault: she
had tried to tell the truth. Naturally no one had believed her story of
weird aliens holding her captive while forcing Dr. Dillingham to work on
their astonishing teeth. There had been no substantiating evidence
except for the simple fact that he was gone without trace. Now the aura
of that wild story hung about her, an albatross, killing any chance she
might have had to find other employment in the profession. In this
corner of the world, at any rate.

Had she claimed that a mobster had murdered the dentist and sunk him in
concrete with shoes of water (or was it the other way round?) she might
have been clear. But the truth had ruined her. Aliens from space?
Lunacy!

The bus halted at the closest corner to the address. She stepped down
regretfully. This was an unfamiliar section of town, ill-kempt and
menacing. Beer cans glittered amid the tall weeds of a vacant lot. Down
the littered street a drunk spotted her and shambled nearer. The bus
blasted its noxious gases at her and shoved off.

Only one structure approximated the address: a cylindrical building
several storeys tall and pointed at the top. Its outer wall was shiny
metal, and surprisingly modernistic for such a region. Yet the lot had
not even been cleared, except for the narrow boardwalk leading to the
entrance.

She started to turn back, then. There was something un-subtly wrong
about this ad and this address. What possible use could these people
have for an experienced dental assistant, etc?

But the reality of her situation turned her about again. The bus was
gone, the drunk was almost upon her, she had barely three dollars in her
purse and her resources beyond that were scant. She had either to take
what offered, or throw away all her training and apply for unspecialized
employment. She pictured herself making beds, scrubbing floors,
babysitting. Suddenly the nameless ad seemed more promising. She
outwalked the drunk and knocked on the cylinder-house door. This was a
circular affair arranged to resemble a ship's porthole. Modern
architecture never ran out of innovations! After a few seconds it
opened, the metal lifting up and out, drawbridge fashion. She took a
nervous breath though she was not the nervous type and entered a small
bare antechamber.

"Name?" a voice said, startling her. For an instant she had fancied it
was Dr. Dillingham speaking, but it was some kind of recorded answering
service whose intonation just happened to resemble that familiar voice.
Apparently she still was not to know who was her prospective employer.

She answered the routine questions automatically. That voice unnerved
her, and enhanced her depression. She had of course never let him know,
but her initial respect for Dr. Dillingham's technical and ethical
finesse had over the months and years deepened into a considerable
appreciation of the man himself, and even--

She became aware that the questions had ceased. An inner panel opened.
"You have been accepted, Miss Galland of Earth," the recording said.

A figure stepped through the new doorway.

Judy was not the screaming type. She screamed.

CHAPTER THREE
-------------

Dr. Dillingham was not in a happy frame of mind. Weeks had passed since
he had last seen the light of a sun, breathed unconfined atmosphere, or
even walked on land. Now the monstrous sentient swimmer within which he
dwelt had deprived him of his transcoder, so that he could no longer
make known his complaints.

His compartment was comfortable enough, and no doubt the Gleeps thought
that sufficient. It had been outfitted with a bed, a chair, a workbench,
selected prosthodontic laboratory paraphernalia and a water-closet--but
this did not make it any less a prison. He used his equipment to fashion
articles of solid gold, but this was sorry entertainment. He had no
company his own size and no journals to relax with.

In an hour he would have to begin the day's labour--a prospect no less
appalling for all its familiarity.

There were sounds in the living hallway. A visitor? He jumped up and
tidied his smock, anxious to meet whatever oddity might appear. He was
sure it would not be human.

The noise stopped. There was a tap on his door.

"Come in!" he called, as much to exercise his voice as in any hope he
could be understood. He would be lucky if the visitor could ever hear
sounds in the human vocal range. The creatures of the galaxy were far
removed from Earthly experience.

"Thank you, Doctor," a cultured voice replied. "So glad to find you at
home."

Dillingham controlled his surprise. This was probably a transcoder in
operation. It was hardly credible that a galactic would happen to speak
unaccented English. Unless, somehow, a live man had--

The door opened. A dinosaur stood without. Its great head hovered a
dozen feet above its powerful webbed hind feet, and its smaller front
feet were held before it a little like the attitude of a begging puppy.
A muscular tail twitched behind. It wore a modest dinner jacket with a
black bow tie.

Dillingham gaped. Such a thing was impossible! This was not Earth, past
or present, and even if--

"I beg you pardon," the dinosaur said. "Were you expecting someone
else?"

Dillingham relaxed abruptly. "Oh, you're a Galactic. I should have
known."

"Would you prefer to have me call at another hour? I did not mean to
disturb you inconveniently."

"No, no! Don't go away," Dillingham exclaimed. "Come in, sit down--or
whatever you do. I haven't seen a sapient face in three weeks. Not since
I was incarcerated here. I mistook you for--never mind. So many crazy
things have happened the past few months that I should be acclimatized
by now."

The creature settled on the floor and wrapped its tail around its feet.
The flat-snouted head was still above Dillingham's level. "Allow me to
introduce myself, in that case. I am, if I may make a free rendition in
your terms, a diplomat from Trachos. I was asked by the, er, high
muck-a-muck of Gleep to talk with you, since there appears to be some
misunderstanding. If there is any way I can help--"

Dillingham had adjusted almost automatically to the notion of conversing
formally in English with a dinosaur, after the initial shock, but he did
have questions. "If you don't mind my asking--how is it you speak my
language? Everyone else has to use the transcoder."

"It is my profession, Doctor. As I said, I am a diplomat--a free-lance
diplomat, if you will. I always master the dialect before attempting to
deal with an alien. The muck-a-muck was considerate enough to loan me a
transcoder coded to Gleep/Earth--"

So that was where his machine had gone! "You went to all this trouble
just to talk directly to me?" This was impressive.

"No trouble at all, Doctor, I assure you. My species, being less
aggressive than most and of poor digital co-ordination," here he held up
webbed fingers, "survived by talking rapidly. Thus we became natural
diplomats, and language is our pleasure. But you seem nervous, Doctor.
Am I abusing your vernacular?"

Dillingham was embarrassed. "No, you speak like a native. But there are
a number of different life forms on my planet, Earth, and by an odd
coincidence you--" He broke off, unwilling to say it.

"I resemble one of your animals? Please do not be reticent, Doctor. I
must confess that your own appearance corresponds to a certain mammalian
strain on my own world, mortifying as it may be to say so."

"Well, I am a mammal--"

"Really?" The creature drew his reptilian head close. "Do you give live
birth to your young? Do you suckle them? Hair on your body? You have
a"--here he paused delicately--"a fixed body temperature?"

Dillingham was taken aback by the implied appraisal. "Some of these
traits are, shall we say, implemented by the female of my species. But
yes--these are typical qualities."

The dinosaur shook his head. "Strange. I did not realize that
intelligence was possible in a true mammal. But in a galaxy the size of
ours--"

"Then you actually are a--reptile? You lay eggs, are cold-blooded, have
undifferentiated teeth?"

"Of course--with the same reservations you mentioned for yourself. I,
being male, do not personally lay eggs, and actually my blood is not
cold. It merely matches the temperature of my body, which in turn
matches my surroundings, which you will agree is the sensible system. No
offence."

Dillingham smiled. "Then I don't suppose it is any insult to you if I
mention that you resemble one of the most notable reptiles in the
history of my planet. It's extinct now, but we call it the duck-billed
dinosaur. I can't remember the technical name."

"Ah. Probably Trachodon. I surmised as much when I interpolated missing
portions of your transcoder's vocabulary."

"You were able to discover terms I don't even know myself?" Dillingham
asked, a little uneasy.

"By no means. If your language were rational, this would be possible,
naturally, but this is hardly the case. The technical names for your
dinosaurs--Stegosaurus, Ornithomimus, Brontosaurus--these were all in
the memory-storage of your transcoder. You must have provided them at
some time."

"But I don't remember any such thing! I may have run across the words in
some college text, years ago, but--"

"Interesting. Are you subject to the trance-state? Perhaps you provided
more information than you realized."

Trance state! Dillingham began to wonder just how much the Enens, his
first galactic "hosts", had learned about him. If they had managed to
drug or hypnotize him--

"Suddenly it occurs to me I've been a trifle nave," he told the
trachodon. Then, oddly, he found himself pouring out all his complaints
to this unusual but sympathetic acquaintance. "...and then I was put to
work instructing classes in metallic restoratives, as though being
abducted from Earth wasn't bad enough. The novelty wore off in a hurry.
Then the Enens sold me to Gleep, and for the past three weeks I've been
wallowing in the unbrushed mouth of the leviathan, shovelling sludge out
of trenchlike cavities and pouring in solid gold because the muck-a-muck
won't allow me to experiment with anything cheaper. I have to live in
this adapted lung-compartment. Oh, the Gleep monarch treats me well
enough--but I can't get used to the idea of never going outside, even if
there is no land here to walk on. As for actually living inside a three
hundred foot long sea creature, like a parasite... I can't even flush
the water-closet without remembering that my refuse is being drained
right back into the bloodstream of--"

"This is understandable," the trachodon said. "It occurs to me that you
are not well situated here."

"That occurred to me three weeks ago! But how do I get away? Every time
I try to say something--"

"I see no problem. To a Gleep, there is no higher privilege than serving
Gleepdom. When you express dissatisfaction with your lot, the
muck-a-muck must assume that the transcoder has broken down. Indeed,
speaking as an objective third party, I must say that your attitude is
atypical."

"You mean there are creatures who would actually enjoy scraping
decomposition off twelve foot cusps, ten hours a day? Who don't mind
isolation?"

"Certainly, assuming they were capable of handling the work. Absolute
comfort, absolute security, limited responsibility--it can be a very
tempting proposition."

Hope blossomed. "Could--could you arrange to have one of these creatures
replace me here?"

"I could certainly inaugurate the proceedings, if that is what you
really desire. But I must warn you: once you leave Gleep, it will be
almost impossible for you to return. Few are granted a second chance."

"The first chance has been quite sufficient. Tell the muck-a-muck there
are lots of Enens who are trained for the work, or who can instruct
other creatures in the principles. Tell him--well, you're the diplomat.
You know what to say."

"Of course. But where do you wish to go ?"

"Home!"

"Your native planet is some distance away. I rather doubt that you
possess the frump or the stiggle to finance the journey at this time,
particularly since you would first have to purchase your own contract
and attain independent status."

Dillingham thought about it. While he hardly approved of the manner he
had become "property", he knew that galactic law recognized the validity
of that status. Earth was not considered to be a civilized planet, and
therefore had few rights. The theory was that a savage admitted to
galactic culture owed a certain amount in return for the education he
picked up just by associating with higher species. He had a long way to
go before becoming his own man again. "I'll go anywhere, so long as it's
above water and in the open."

"I could arrange transportation quite readily to Electrolus, where I
happen to have my next assignment--"

"Does it have solid land and natural sunshine?"

"Yes, but--"

"Done!"

Two hours later Trach showed him aboard a ship anchored on the surface.
It hardly seemed possible that he had obtained his release so readily,
yet here he was, out of the belly of the whale. Trach was certainly
efficient!

"This isn't an Enen ship," Dillingham observed. "Too small. Where's the
crew?"

"There is no crew," Trach said, closing the hatch.

Dillingham realized abruptly that he was alone with a dinosaur--really
alone. "But you said--"

Trach walked by, his breath smelling of midsummer hay. "I'm going to
Electrolus, and there is room for you aboard my ship, so I simplified
the procedure by purchasing your contract myself. Wasn't that what you
wanted?"

Dillingham was hardly sure. The trachadon stood twelve feet tall without
stretching and had an alarmingly powerful construction. The ridiculous
jacket and bow-tie could not conceal the impervious hide beneath, or the
rippling reptilian musculature. When he spoke, the jaws parted to reveal
a ferocious array of teeth... but not far enough to enable Dillingham to
determine whether they were the implements of a herbivore or a
carnivore.

"Take-off may be a trifle uncomfortable," Trach said. "Would you like me
to strap you in?"

The spare couch had enormous metallic bands for up to six limbs. The
fastenings were far too heavy for Dillingham to manipulate himself; they
were shackles that would hold him helpless, once clamped. "I--I'll try
my luck without the straps," he said.

"Fine. I never bother with them myself. Sometimes I get hungry in
mid-manoeuvre, and they become inconvenient."

Sometimes he got hungry... Dillingham wondered just what rights a
contract granted the owner. Were the duckbills carnivorous? He couldn't
remember. He gripped his bag of tools tightly, wishing he had something
more sturdy than a slender dental sealer. But of course Trach was
friendly. He was a reputable diplomat. He said.

Trach braced his tail against the floor and manipulated controls.
Suddenly there was a jolt that threw Dillingham to the floor. "Just a
little finicky when she's warming up," the dinosaur remarked, "One of
these missions I'm going to lease a modern ship. This one is apt to
spring a leak in space any time now."

Dillingham sat down abruptly on the couch and gripped a strap. Leak in
space! Another jolt, and the ship was moving. Trach activated a screen,
and the grey waves of the Gleep ocean appeared, rushing past at an
astonishing rate. Then they were airborne, and the waves gave way to
dank clouds.

It became warm. "Do you have any temperature control for this ship?"
Dillingham inquired sweating. "I think the speed is heating the--I mean,
the atmospheric friction--"

"Oh, there is some variation. We're reaching for escape velocity, after
all. On this planet, in your terms, that's about twenty thousand knots.
Nothing to worry about."

Dillingham winced as the metal flooring became hot. "Well, I'm a
fixed-temperature creature," he reminded the dinosaur apologetically.

"Is this uncomfortable for you? I had forgotten." Trach obligingly
turned on a frigid blast of air. "Good thing that device is operative
now. Sometimes it gets stuck on HOT."

Dillingham nodded, shivering, though the metal fastenings were still too
hot to touch. He wondered how many other minor inconveniences this ship
would produce. This was certainly a contrast to the precision equipment
of the Enens.

The ship shuddered and bucked, catapulting him across the burning floor.
"That breaks us out of the atmosphere," Trach said nonchalantly. "Better
stay on the couch, though. Sometimes it--"

The dinosaur turned as he spoke, spied Dillingham far removed from the
couch, and leaped for him. The enormous webbed hands caught him before
he could scramble to safety. "Got you!" Trach grunted with satisfaction.

Dillingham opened his mouth to scream, knowing it to be a thoroughly
useless and effeminate gesture but unable to think of anything better.
There had been foul pla--

The ship seemed to turn inside out. There was a sickening wrench of...
something that threatened to deposit his stomach inside his braincase.
Then Dillingham found himself seated on Trach's soft underbelly, both of
them jammed into a corner.

Trach snapped around, snake-like, and set him on his feet. "I meant to
warn you, Doctor. The shift into overdrive is sometimes a little sticky.
I'm used to it, but you could have been hurt. Are you all right?"

"Yes," Dillingham replied, unsettled.

"From here on it will be perfectly smooth," Trach said. "Once this tub
makes it through the shift, she's safe--until the shift back. That won't
be for a couple of days, your time. We can relax."

Dillingham decided to take him at his word. "Thank you for all your
trouble."

Trach touched a button on a complicated machine. "You over-rate the
service I performed," he said modestly. "Ordinarily I would be offered a
fair commission for straightening out the Gleep problem. But I accepted
your contract in lieu of that, and it's worth--"

"A ton of frumpstiggle."

"Which is several times my normal fee. That is a credit my account
sorely needs. If I had failed to give satisfaction--"

The machine spewed out a mass of green material resembling fresh cabbage
leaves.

"So you weren't just being nice, helping me out?"

"Doctor, it is my business to be nice, and to get paid for it. Too often
I'm never given the opportunity. We'll find some attractive disposition
for your contract, maybe a semi-private practice on Electrolus similar
to the one you had on Earth, and both of us will gain. May I offer you
something to eat?"

"That's--food?" Dillingham eyed the armful of leaves.

"Greenchomp, in your idiom. It's the only sustenance my species can
tolerate. But the synthesizer can be adjusted for other things--usually.
What would you prefer?"

Dillingham contemplated the machine. "I'm not hungry at the moment," he
said. "What did you mean about never being given the opportunity to be
nice? If you're a diplomat--"

"Free-lance. That means I'm my own boss, but if I don't produce, I
starve. I go from mission to mission, and I was doing well enough until
recently. But now--well, if I don't make good on Electrolus, I'll be
awkwardly near insolvency. I'll have to scratch to provision my ship for
the next hop, and that means--"

"Don't tell me. Let me guess. That means you'll have to auction off my
contract to the highest bidder."

"Something like that. And I'm afraid they don't offer as much for
compatible locations. There's always a fierce demand for doctors and
dentists in the radium mines of Ra, because--"

"My curiosity just radiated away. Let's agree that your problem is my
problem, and see if we can't solve it."

"If only we could. But it baffles me."

"You seemed to handle the Gleep affair readily enough. I'm no judge, of
course, but if you know your job and work at it, I can't see why you
should have any difficulties." It was amazing how quickly they had got
on intimate terms. The confirmation of Trach's leafy diet and the image
of deadly radium mines might have contributed something, however.

"I agree. But somehow I haven't made the grade recently, except on
Gleep."

Tell me about it," Dillingham said. "Believe me, I am exceedingly
interested."

Trach flexed his tail restlessly. "Consider my last assignment. The
planet of Bolt engaged me to set up formal relations with the world of
Gulp and arrange for a cultural exchange. I mastered the difficult
language of Gulp--it's a glottal dialect--and trained myself to be adept
at every nuance of planetary etiquette before setting one webbed foot
there. I rehearsed my ritual compliments industriously. I'm sure
everything was correct--yet I never got to meet the representatives with
whom I had to deal. Despite my numerous hints, then: monarch did not see
fit to provide me with the necessary appointments, and finally my lease
expired with nothing accomplished. I had to forfeit the commission." His
tail slapped the deck in frustration. "How can I be diplomatic when I'm
not permitted to talk with my clients?"

Dillingham shared his host's confusion. "Weren't advance arrangements
made? Didn't they know what you were there for?"

"They knew. The arrangements were made--and cancelled after my arrival.
They never told me why."

"Maybe they changed their minds about the cultural exchange, and didn't
want to admit it."

"Then why did they hire another diplomat after I left, an amphibian
yet(!) and allow him to complete the entire programme?"

Why, indeed. "That's typical? I mean, the same thing has happened on
other planets?"

Too many others. They just seem to lose interest, while other
free-lancers make the reputation and commissions that should have gone
to me. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect a conspiracy."

"Do you know better? A situation like that--"

"That also is my business. I can spot corrupt politics as quickly as you
can spot a rotten tooth."

"But there must be some reason." Dillingham tried to think of something
plausible, but nothing occurred to him. "Let's isolate the, er, area of
infection. Exactly when did Gulp's attitude change?"

Trach considered. "All the signals were positive at first. They sent an
honour guard to meet me when I landed, and I was provided with the most
elegant accommodation. I interviewed the monarch the very next day. He
was quite cordial, and I was sure success was in my grasp."

"But--?"

"But nothing. That was the only appointment I had. They left me alone,
and put me off when I tried to inquire. I know the brush-off when I get
hit over the snout with it."

"But are you sure there was no--"

"There was no foul play. No animosity. They simply changed their minds,
and wouldn't tell me why. Most frustrating, for a professional."

Something clicked at last in Dillingham's mind. "May I have a look at
your teeth?"

"My teeth?" Trach was surprised, but did not remark on the apparent
change of subject. "I have no trouble with them. When one row wears
down, another takes its place. Even decay presents no problem as you
mammals know it. Any damaged tooth falls out promptly and a new one
grows."

But he obliged the whim of the Earthman. Dillingham was astonished as he
looked. Trach's flat bill contained myriads of proportionately tiny
teeth. They extended in rows along the sides of his mouth, and extra
teeth decorated the upper and lower palates.

"About two thousand," Trach said. "I'm not sure of the exact count
because several rows have already worn away, and some haven't erupted
yet."

"You use all these just to chew greenchomp?" The stuff looked like
cabbage, but he suspected it had the consistency of asbestos.

"As many as I need. We're herbivorous, like most civilized species."

Dillingham let that pass. He'd have to try some of that greenchomp,
assuming his feeble twenty-eight teeth could dent it. It was probably
nutritious, and could hardly be worse than the pseudomeat extruded from
modified Gleep sweat glands. Why an ocean creature had ever had to
sweat--

He brought his mind back to the problem. "How do you clean your teeth
after a meal?"

"We employ a chemical mouthwash that dissolves vegetable matter in
seconds," Trach said. "Though as I said, it doesn't really matter. Our
teeth are--"

"May I see some of that?"

Trach was embarrassed. "The synthesizer provides it also--but mine is on
the blink in that area. I can't get it fixed until I return to Trachos.
But that's merely an inconvenience. I could give you the formula--"

Dillingham nodded. "More than an inconvenience, I'm afraid. You
shouldn't go so long without cleaning your mouth."

"But I told you it can't hurt my teeth. They--"

"That isn't precisely what I meant."

"Oh? What do you mean?"

Dillingham was acutely embarrassed to sound so much like an Earthly TV
commercial. "Trach, you have halitosis."

The dinosaur looked at him, perplexed. "I don't understand."

"You have BAD BREATH!"

"But my breathing is not affected..."

Dillingham tried again. "If I were a diplomat like you, I'd find some
way, some gentle, discreet way, to tell you. As it is, all I can say is
that your breath stinks of greenchomp. Particles of the stuff are wedged
between your teeth. You have a lot of teeth, and it's pretty strong."

"But greenchomp smells good. Does it bother you?"

"No. It's like freshly cut grass or curing hay. But then, I'm not a
civilized, sensitive-nosed herbivore."

"You mean--?"

"I mean. How does my breath smell to you?"

Trach sniffed. "Faintly of carrion. But I'm accustomed to foreign
stenches."

"Right. You're a diplomat, so you've schooled yourself to ignore the
crudities of the creatures you meet. But suppose you were a protected,
royal-born creature, trained to notice the tiniest deviation from
etiquette. Suppose your diet while herbivorous, did not happen to be
greenchomp. Sup--"

Trach slammed his tail explosively against the floor, interrupting him.
"Suppose I met an alien who breathed sheer miasma into my delicate
nostrils--"

"Yes. What would you say to him?"

"Nothing, of course. It wouldn't be--"

"Diplomatic?"

Trach paced the deck in a frenzy of mortification. "How horrible? No
wonder they wouldn't talk to me more than once. And worse--they may have
assumed that all Trachodons smell that way. That I was typical. That
would foul up every representative from my world." He gnashed his teeth
impressively.

"So maybe you'd better dash home and replace your synthesizer before
going on to Electrolus?"

Trach slapped his webbed hands together. "I can't. I'd have to admit my
reason for delaying Electrolus. They'd never let me off-world again,
after such a colossal blunder."

"You're going to have to clean your mouth somehow, then, and thoroughly.
The greenchomp must be removed. Unless the Electrolytes can't smell very
well?"

"They can distinguish differing grades of clear glass--by odour. At
twenty paces upwind."

Dillingham sighed. The image of the radium mines loomed larger in his
mind. "I don't suppose you could get them to repair your synthesizer
before--?"

"They're not mechanically inclined."

The two lapsed into interstellar gloom.

Dillingham racked his brain for some solution to their mutual problem.
It was ironic that a dentist couldn't come up with a simple way to clean
teeth. The synthesizer, like so many of the ship's utilities, functioned
erratically, and they were afraid to risk pushing it into a complete
breakdown that would cut off even their greenchomp supply. Other
chemicals besides Trach's original mouthwash might have done the job,
but they were no easier to produce. Mechanical cleansing was also out of
the question. A toothbrush--to clean two thousand teeth packed in like
magnified sandpaper? Possibly a thorough scaling accompanied by copious
rinsing with water would do the job--but it was obvious that this
procedure would consume so much time, particularly as performed by
Trach's webbed fingers, that the dinosaur would have to eat again before
the job could be finished.

A blast of water from a pressure nozzle? Too splashy, and it still
required time and care to get the wedged particles. Trach's skills were
verbal, not manipulative--and what would he do at a public banquet?

What was needed was a simple but effective method to clean all the teeth
in a few seconds. Agreed. But what?

"Is there any place you could obtain a temporary supply of your usual
mouthwash? Enough to tide you over this one assignment?"

Trach twitched his tail reflectively. "The dental university might have
it in stock. But they'd be sure to make a report to Trachos, and--"

"Dental university?" Dillingham found himself interested for another
reason. "On a galactic scale?"

"Certainly. There's a university for every subject. Transportation,
Communication, Medicine, Music, Dentistry--"

"Would this one--Dentistry--happen to have a school of Prosthodontics?"

"I'm sure it would. These universities are big outfits. Each one has a
planet-grant, and students from all over the galaxy attend. Their
standards are exceedingly strict--but there is no finer training.
Graduates are set up for life. Had I been eligible to attend the
University of Diplomacy--"

"Fascinating," Dillingham whispered. He would have to think about this.
Meanwhile the immediate problem remained: instant cleansing of two
thousand teeth.

He thought of something. "Trach, what can the synthesizer produce
besides greenchomp? Without risking a breakdown, that is?"

"Oh, it turns out a number of mundane things. Several foodstuffs, yellow
paint, mattress-stuffing, aromatic glue--"

"Mattress-stuffing?"

"For the acceleration couches. Sometimes they--"

"I see. How does it do on plastic foam?"

"I see no reason why it couldn't produce that. Of course the machine may
not agree, but we can try." ,

"Fine. I want soft foam that solidifies in two or three minutes to a
firm but flexible texture. Non-toxic. Try for that."

Trach obeyed, though there was obviously some question in his mind.
After several tries he found a setting that produced a villainous purple
goo that approximated the specifications.

"Now run a gallon of fresh foam and pack it into your mouth while it is
soft. Chew on it a little, but don't swallow any."

Trach was alarmed. "In my mouth? What did I ever do to you? The stuff
will harden--"

"It certainly will. Uh, you can breathe through your nose?"

Trach nodded dubiously. At Dillingham's insistence he crammed the foam
into his oral orifice. "Tasheshts awrvul!" he muttered around the
bubbles. "Hwath a hway to dhye!"

"Now hold it there until it sets."

"Urgh," Trach agreed reluctantly. After a few minutes Dillingham gave
the next instructions:

"Now open your mouth carefully... slowly--there. Now lift out the entire
mass. Work it loose from the teeth--you may have to knock it a
little--it's a foam impression, you see. A little harder. Oh-oh." The
cast seemed to have set somewhat more securely than anticipated.
Dillingham took his little prosthodontic mallet and tapped at the mass,
finally dislodging it. "See all that green stuff embedded in it?" he
asked the dinosaur, pointing. "That's the left-over greenchomp, all
yanked out at once."

Trach pointed in turn. "See those little white bits also embedded? Those
are teeth."

"Oh." He had forgotten how fragile the replaceable teeth were. No real
harm had been done, but this was hardly a procedure that could be
repeated several times a day. And he could still smell the green breath.
"I think I'd better think again."

"Well, it was worth the try." Trach opened a cabinet and withdrew a
long-handled instrument. "While you cogitate, I'm going to clean up the
ship. We'll be approaching Electrolus in a few hours."

As the disc of the planet came into view on the screen, Dillingham still
had no idea how to solve the problem. Idly he watched the dinosaur, a
finicky housekeeper, running his cleaner over the control panel. A small
attachment enabled him to get at even the daintiest knobs, and the grime
vanished readily.

Suddenly the obvious occurred to him. "Trach--is that an ultrasonic
instrument?"

The dinosaur paused. "Why yes. The handpiece operates at about 30,000
cycles per second, with a fine water spray. The cavitational action--"

"In other words," Dillingham interrupted excitedly, "the vibration is on
an ultrasonic level, and causes microscopic bubbles in the water that
burst and scrub off the surface quite effectively. On Earth we use a
similar instrument for cleaning teeth."

"For cleaning teeth?" Then Trach caught on. "Why of course. I must have
used this cleaner a thousand times, and on my most delicate equipment.
I'm pretty handy with it, if I do say so myself. I could--"

"You could, with a few hours of instruction, become competent at dental
prophylaxis, since you are thoroughly familiar with the mechanism. If
you have clean tips you can use for oral work, and a mirror--"

"I can blast out every bit of left-over greenchomp! My breath will be
pure, and--oh--oh!" He put aside the instrument, listening.

"It won't be easy the first few times, even so," Dillingham warned. "But
at least--"

"Overdrive shiftback!" Trach cried. He leapt for Dillingham.

The ship turned inside out as they were dumped into the corner, but both
were smiling.

"But I'm not a dentist!" Judy told the transcoder. "I'm a dental
assistant and hygienist and light book-keeper, as you must know." The
transcoder typed her words on to a stick in the form of indentations,
and the North Nebulite took this. He poked it into the orifice beneath
his triple-slit nose and chewed gently.

What jaw-motions constituted reading, as opposed to writing (typing?)
she couldn't tell, and she was sure they could read by sight too. They
had their own little ways of doing things. In a moment the creature fed
the talk-stick back into the transcoder. "You are Dr. Dillingham's
assistant. Extremely competent but aloof. We searched for you. We
obtained you. This is his laboratory. So assist."

She peered around at the alien paraphernalia. It had been a substantial
education, finding out exactly what had happened to Dillingham. Horrible
as the purple-lipped, double-jointed North Nebulites--Enens, according
to Dillingham's invented information coded into the machine--appeared,
they were pleasant enough when understood. The two designated to show
her around were Holmes and Watson, though either answered (or failed to
answer) to either name. "I never worked in the lab itself. Not that way.
I can't make a reconstruction. I'm not allowed to perform dentistry on a
patient--not by myself. I assist the dentist while he works. Where is
Dr. Dillingham?"

Holmes assimilated the new stick and bit off a reply. The Enens had been
cagey about late news on Dillingham, apart from vague assurances that he
was doing well. She kept inserting the question in the hope that one of
them would slip and give her an answer.

This time it worked. "Dr. Dillingham? We sold him to the high
muck-a-muck of Gleep."

Judy started to laugh at the grotesque designation Dillingham had hung
on that entity. He must have enjoyed himself hugely as he programmed the
transcoder! On Earth he had always been serious.

She sobered abruptly. "Sold him?"

"He was on contract, same as you. Hostage against the expense of his
procurement and shipment. Perfectly regular."

"I'm on--?! You advertised for a job, not a slave! You can't buy and
sell human beings!"

"Why not?"

She was not the spluttering type. She spluttered. "It just isn't done!
Not on Earth."

Both Enens masticated that. "We aren't on Earth," Holmes pointed out.
"Your ballbase players are bought and sold on Earth," Watson said.
"Everything is in order according to Galactic codes," they both said--or
else the machine had choked over the pair of sticks and read the same
message off twice.

"But Dr. Dillingham and I aren't ballbase--baseball! players! And it
isn't the same. This is kidnapping."

The Enens nibbled sticks, not understanding what all the fuss was about.
"Everything is in order. We told you that. Now will you assist?"

Judy dropped that tack for the moment. The Enens had not mistreated her,
after all, and it was rather exciting being on another world, and she
could never have afforded passage on her own. At least she was on
Dillingham's trail, and that alone just about made up for the rest of
it. It wasn't as though she had had any particularly inviting future
back on Earth.

"Well, how about letting me talk to the muck-a-muck? I can't accomplish
much here by myself."

"But you applied for a position at North Nebula!"

"I changed my mind."

It took her several more days to establish that her mind, once changed,
was absolutely set. She did convince them that their own technicians
were far more competent in the laboratory than she, though far less
competent than supposed at the time Dillingham had been sold. She
suspected that Earth was about to sustain another dental raid, and she
felt sorry for the innocent DOS that would be nabbed, but it was every
ballbase player for himself. She was on her way to Gleep.

CHAPTER FOUR
------------

"I am informed you are a tooth-healer," the amorphous blob said. It
spoke through a transcoder, since its natural mode of communication was
via modulations in an internally generated electronic signal. The only
way Dillingham could tell it was talking was by hearing the
translation--which actually simplified things comfortably.

The creature was about four feet high and shaped like a rock when it
came to a standstill. Its surface had the lustre of polished metal, yet
it was flexible enough to make ambulation possible. There were no arms
or legs; it seemed to move by wormlike undulations of its underside as
well as the constant shifting of balance that brought about a controlled
rolling.

"I am a dentist, yes," Dillingham agreed. "But I'm afraid neither my
training nor my equipment would be of any benefit to you. My practical
experience had been confined to--"

"We have verified your references," the blob replied. "If you would be
of service, come."

Verified his references! Dillingham had not known he had any, on a
galactic scale. This Electrolyte must have queried Trach and received a
diplomatically optimistic report.

"You are asking me to look at--one of your people? I really don't know
anything about--"

"We have made proper allowance for your appealing modesty. Come."

That was Trach's handiwork, certainly. The dinosaur had entirely too
much confidence in Dillingham's ability--or too vested an interest in
the worth of Dillingham's contract.

Well, he was tired of idleness. He could at least accompany this
creature, though any professional service was out of the question.
Automatically he picked up his bag of equipment and the transcoder and
followed the blob outside.

Electrolus was an interesting world, for persons who liked the type. The
plants were crystalline and the animals metallic, with a metamorphic
slant. Trach had said something about a silicon basis for life here, but
the details had not been at all clear.

Trach had also arranged for a private duplex with appurtenances suitable
to reptilian and mammalian needs. Dillingham was happy to share this
with the diplomat. Trach might resemble a grade C nightmare out of
Earth's past, but he was as familiar as a brother compared to some of
the other galactic creatures encountered.

Although Dillingham's contract was a euphemism for slavery, he retained
certain inalienable galactic rights: life, compatible environment, and
the pursuit of liberty. The first was too often precarious and the
second a matter of opinion, but the third vested him with a standard
interstellar credit rating. His prior prosthodontic services had accrued
normal commissions to his account, and even his transfer from one owner
to another had added a percentage fixed by nebulactic law. He was
handsomely solvent--but still a long way from the wealth required to
purchase his own contract.

On Electrolus it was more than normally apparent that money--or frump or
stiggle or whatever--wasn't everything. He could not enjoy the local
cuisine: stewed silicate crystals hampered his digestion, no matter how
succulent the grade. Trach's creaky synthesizer produced the only food
available to him here--greenchomp, with constitution of leather and
taste of hay. He could not enjoy the companionship of his own kind
because he was, to the best of his knowledge, the only member of his
species within a hundred light-years, or a thousand. He could not even
relax with an informative text, since the Electrolytes had other,
nonvisual, means of recording data.

He could admire the view, as he tramped after the serenely rolling blob.
It was spectacular. The sunlight glinted and refracted and diffused amid
the towering crystalline structures, kaleidoscoping colour. The entire
countryside was jewel-like, with rising spires, steeples and minarets of
brilliance along every azimuth.

Dillingham would have given almost anything for the sight of a green
tree or a human face. He wondered what his former assistant, Miss
Galland, was doing now, but cut off that speculation. A competent girl
like her would have found another position immediately; even if he
managed to return to Earth tomorrow, she would no longer be available.

Trach, at least, was fully absorbed in his business and didn't have to
worry about homesickness. Every day he went forth to meet important
personages and to arrange new liaisons, working diligently to solve
whatever diplomatic problems Electrolus had hired him for. But
Dillingham had no vital mission here. He had to wait, and hope that the
dinosaur was successful, so that his own contract did not wind up in the
tentacles of a radium mining foreman on Ra, or some even less enticing
location. Lots of terrible places in the galaxy had standing offers for
medical and dental specialists, because no one went there voluntarily...

They had arrived. The native rolled into a gracious cave-like residence,
and Dillingham accompanied it cautiously. He knew almost nothing about
the custom of this culture, and could not guess how such featureless
creatures had achieved space travel.

The occupant of the domicile greeted him with what he presumed was
warmth: "Contortions, O Toothman. Can you snog the dentifrice?"

Dillingham looked askance at his transcoder. It was supposed to render
the alien signal-wave into intelligible English. If it went awry now, he
would be in serious trouble.

"This, you understand, is the problem," his guide said. "Your instrument
is not out of order."

That was a relief. "This appears to be a--a psychological matter. I
certainly can't--"

"On the contrary, Doctor. It is a tooth matter. Our healers are baffled.
The situation is getting out of hand. A number of our most prominent
individuals, this one foremost among them, are baffled, yet nothing is
done."

"But I work on teeth, not speech problems!"

"Of course. That is why we hope you can help us. Anyone who can cure a
Gleep toothache--"

Should he try to explain that dumping twenty tons of gold into the
monster Gleep cavity in no way qualified him as a galactic psychiatrist?
No doubt they would find the distinction plebian. Better a polite
demurral.

He addressed the patient: "Sir, I am not at all certain I can snog the
dentifrice, but I return your contortions."

The surface of the Electrolyte sparkled. "Joy and rapturations! You
clank the concordance!"

The guide rippled a lava-like furrow in Dillingham's direction and
settled three inches. "You comprehend him?"

"Well, not exactly--but I've had some experience recently with alien
dialects. He was obviously wishing me well, and inquiring whether I
could help him. My patients always say something like that, so I reply
in kind."

"I perceive your reputation was well-earned! Half of what he says is
gibberish to us. It's frightful."

Dillingham looked at the patient. "Doesn't he mind this clinical
discussion in his presence?"

"He can't understand us any more than we understand him. He's quite
normal in most other respects, and healthy--but he seems to be speaking
another language. If only we knew what it was, we could programme a
transcoder, but--"

Something jogged Dillingham's memory. "Can he speak to the other
afflicted Electrolytes?"

"No. They have even more trouble understanding each other. It's worse
when they try to--"

"I suspected as much. I once had a patient on Earth who had asphasia."
He paused, wondering whether he should try to clarify that it had been
the teeth he had worked on, not the asphasia. That's a kind of
distortion of speech brought about by injury or disease. The patient
thinks he's making sense, but the words are all confused. He has to
learn the language all over again."

That's it!" the guide agreed. "Truly, your cognizance is remarkable. Can
you fix it quickly?"

What a living a huxter could make on this trusting planet! "I'm afraid
not. I know almost nothing about such aberrations among my own kind, let
alone--"

"But surely, now that you have diagnosed it--"

Dillingham made one more attempt. "I am neither a doctor nor a
psychiatrist. I am a dentist. I repair teeth and try to restore the
natural health of the mouth. What you need is someone who specializes in
speech, or mental health."

"Of course, Doctor. That is what our tooth healers do. How could it be
otherwise?"

And in the past on Earth, barbers had practised medicine... Would his
refusal to consider the matter further be taken as a mortal insult that
would prejudice Trach's diplomatic mission and lead to...?

Dillingham decided to have a look at the teeth. That much, at least, was
theoretically within his competence. He hadn't yet observed any trace of
a mouth, but that was minor.

"I shall try to snog the dentifrice," he said matter-of-factly to the
patient. "Please open your mouth."

The polish lost some of its lustre. "Mooth?"

Oh-oh. Another missing word. "Show me your tooth-container. Your oral
aperture. Your--"

"Ah. My clank units."

That made sense. "Clank the concordance" might have meant "speak the
language". The mouth would naturally be the speaking-place, the teeth
the speech units.

"Right. I have to look at your clank units." Then he addressed the
guide: "How do your teeth make speech?"

"They--talk. How else could it be?"

"But not quite the way mine do. You don't use sound. And surely the
communication signal isn't generated directly by your teeth. It's
electronic!"

"But isn't that the way everyone speaks?"

Ask a foolish question! The Electrolyte obviously had no conception of
sound or vocal mechanisms.

But electronic teeth? He knew even less about electronics than he did
about psychiatry.

Meanwhile the patient still hadn't got the idea, which might be a
blessing. There was no mouth in evidence. "Show me your dentifrice,
please," he said.

That was the formula. The upper section of the blob lifted, lidlike.
Inside was a ceramic chamber with a dozen genuine, conventional teeth.
They were arranged in opposing vertical semi-circles, and each was a
sturdy molar adapted to the crushing and grinding of tough crystal.

"I see he has had some metal inlay operative dentistry."

"What?"

Another point clarified. The average Electrolyte knew no more about
prosthodontics than did the average Earthman. "Some work done. Seems to
be in order."

"Oh. Yes, nothing but the best."

Dillingham investigated more closely, reassured by the increasing
familiarity of the orifice. His experienced eye traced the masticatory
patterns and noted clues to the general health of the creature, though
he knew he could not rely on such estimates when he knew so little of
the native metabolism. Still, he saw no reason that these teeth should
contribute to any general disorder. "Gold inlays. Very nice work. But I
note some corrosion."

"Corrosion?" the patient inquired. Dillingham wondered how he could talk
with his mouth wide open, then remembered that the speech was
electronic. If it really were connected with the teeth...

Circuits inside these molars? Perhaps a dentist was the person to
consult about speech defects!

Such duality was not really more remarkable than that of the human
apparatus. Take a mouth intended for mastication and salivation, pass
air from the respiratory system through it, vibrate that air by
interposing the cords intended by nature to seal off the lungs when
under stress, and you had the basis of the human speech mechanism. None
of it had been designed originally for communication, yet it functioned
well enough. Why not teeth whose solid silicon structure became adapted
to semi-conductor modulation?

On Earth there had been documented cases of radio reception via the
metallic content of fillings in the teeth. Here, the natural currents
resulting from stresses applied while chewing could eventually have been
harnessed into broadcasting and receiving circuits...

If only he knew more about such things! As it was, he knew that
transistors were semi-conductor devices able to take the place of many
electron tubes. This mouth could be the chassis of a radio set, each
tooth performing a specific function in the circuit. Current low? Clench
the teeth!

Which put the problem clearly beyond his competence. This was a case in
which formal galactic training would be invaluable. Trach had mentioned
a Galactic University of Dentistry, but had stressed the difficulties of
admittance: "You have to have a high potential to begin with. They won't
even consider you unless you are sponsored by an accredited planet. All
the universities are like that. And few worlds will bother to sponsor an
alien, when they have so many of their own people eager to make the
attempt."

"You'd advise me to forget it, then?" he had asked, disappointed.

Trach had agreed. How could an ignorant Earthman aspire to advanced
training, when he couldn't even afford his own contract? Yet the dream
wouldn't die. One of these planets he would make a bad mistake. If he
wished to remain at large in the galaxy, he needed a galactic diploma.

Not that he wanted anything more than a prompt return to Earth. A secure
practice at home. Certainly.

The Electrolytic teeth returned to focus. At least he could clean up the
minor tarnish visible on the inlays. No risk there. The previous dentist
must have been a trifle careless, for gold seldom tarnished unless there
were impurities in the alloy. Apart from that, the work was expert.

He finished the polishing quickly. As for the language problem--there
was nothing he could do about that. Under no circumstances would he
drill into one of those fantastic teeth.

Thank you," the patient said. "That tastes much better. What recompense
may I offer you?'.

The guide quivered. "Your gibber--I mean, your aphasia. It's gone!"

"What do you mean, gone? You were the one who gabbled gibberish,
sweetcore."

The guide addressed "Dillingham. "O omniscient healer! You have cured my
husband! How did you do it?"

Dillingham backed off. "I didn't do it. I merely removed a little
tarnish from his reconstructions."

"You must have done something, Doctor," the patient said. "For weeks
I've been trying to make my imperious wishes plain to this pebblehead,
but she gave me increasingly unintelligible answers. My acquaintances
have been even worse. It was as though they'd all blown their
signal-coding teeth. But you understood readily enough, and somehow you
brought them back to their senses. I really must reward you properly."

"I assure you, I did not--"

"You replied to my salutation, and you eliminated the bad taste in my
mouth, just as requested. An excellent job, not to mention this other
inconvenience you alleviated."

Discretion told him to let the matter ride, but something else overrode
it. That little bit of polishing could not have affected the internal
circuitry, and he could not accept credit for more than he had done. It
was against professional ethics. The aphasia might return at any time,
perhaps much worse than before, if the cause were neglected.

"You must stay for supper," the husband said. "It's such a relief to
hear intelligible shunk again."

There was a gasp (courtesy of the transcoder) from the wife. Dillingham
saw his worst fear realized, and forestalled her comment the only way he
could think of at the moment. "Sir, may I check your teeth once more?
While you were shunking I remembered a place I may have missed."

"Certainly." The great lid hinged up and the chunky teeth were exposed
again.

Dillingham saw nothing new, but occupied time by re-polishing all the
teeth carefully. He needed to think this out. Had he done something that
might affect the speech mechanism? Could mere tarnish somehow influence
signal modulation? Tarnish was caused, in gold inlays, by
electrochemical interaction of the saliva with impurities, but--

Full-blown, he had the answer.

"What were you saying, a moment ago?" he asked the Electrolyte. "That it
was a relief to--"

"A relief to hear intelligible speech again," the patient replied
promptly. "After weeks of--"

The polishing had done it--and now he knew why. "Sit down, both of you,
please," he said, knowing that the transcoder would provide the term for
whatever they did in lieu of sitting. "I have some serious news for
you."

Perplexed, they settled gently. "What I have accomplished is only a
temporary cure," he continued in his more professional manner. "The
aphasia will inevitably return, unless you take immediate action."

"Tell us what to do, Doctor," the wife said anxiously, while the husband
ran complacent ripples over his surface.

"First, I must make plain what has happened. Sir, when did you have all
that gold installed in your teeth?"

"About six months ago." Again, the transcoder was indulging in liberal
paraphrase. "It's a new technique, and very expensive--but I was tired
of old-fashioned stone fillings that kept chipping away and falling
out."

"And your--problem--began several weeks ago. No--I know this is
unpleasant, but I have to tell you that it was your speech that became
unintelligible, not your wife's. Why else do you think she was able to
communicate with other people, while you couldn't? Some of your words
made sense, but others--well, you did say "shunk" instead of "speech" a
moment ago, for example."

"I did?"

"You did, dear," the wife said firmly.

"And my handsome expensive prestigious restorations are the cause?" The
Electrolyte wasn't stupid.

"Indirectly, yes. The work is very good--but all your metal inlays will
have to be replaced with the old kind."

In the next few minutes he made his case and left them stricken. How
much easier it would have been to avoid the truth! At times the
dentist's duty, like the doctor's or tax-collector's was disturbing. But
necessary.

Trach was waiting for him at the duplex. "What have you got into, you
hot-blooded mammal?" the towering duckbill demanded. "I have a complaint
that you cured one of the leading citizens of the planet of his madness,
then turned around and told him he'd have to remove all his costly
fillings."

"That's about it, I'm afraid." News travelled rapidly, when every
individual was his own broadcaster.

Trach slapped his solid green tail against the floor in exasperation.
The sound was like a pistol shot--but how better to vent pique, than by
banging one's tail resoundingly! "Just when I had this planet's affairs
sewed up!"

"I don't understand. Did my patient complain?"

"No. He's convinced you are a genius."

"I'm duly complimented. But--"

"So he recommended to the ruling council, of which he is a
member--temporarily on health-leave--that an immediate directive be
issued forbidding the employment or retention of metallic restorations
in any teeth on the planet. He has influence. The directive has been
published."

"Already? In the time it took me to walk back here?"

"Already. And the league of local dentists is up in arms. They have some
pretty potent backing of their own."

"I see." He saw. He had unwittingly provoked a political crisis. He
should have consulted the local practitioners before making his
recommendation. Naturally the dental league objected to having an
outsider appear and demand that the latest advance be abolished. He'd
feel the same way.

That was another reason he needed further training. There were always
ramifications that extended beyond the strictly practical. How could he
anticipate them all?

Trach paced the floor, his glossy reptilian skin flexing under the
incongruous little dinner-jacket he affected. "This means trouble. I
don't like to say this, but it would be safer for both of us if you
could see your way clear to retract your recommendation."

"But it's an honest prosthodontic opinion. I--"

This is no longer a prosthodontic matter." Trach pursed his lips. He had
extremely fleshy labia, necessary to articulate clearly around his
twenty hundred teeth, and this expression was startling. "I'm sure you
know what you're doing, in your field--but diplomacy is my field, and I
assure you that if we don't act soon, this will be a bad territory for
tetrapods. This happens to be one of the few civilized planets where war
is a recognized way to settle disputes."

"War! You mean they'd--"

"Both sides are already enlisting mercenaries."

Dillingham sat down, appalled. It was too late now to condemn himself
for a meddler. He should have kept his opinions to himself until
checking with Trach. "What can I do?"

"Other than retract, you mean? You could meet with the dental league and
explain your position. They might listen, if you catch them before
hostilities formally commence."

"I'll meet them! Is there much time?"

"Oh, yes. The first engagement isn't scheduled until this evening."

This evening! Let's not waste any time, then. I'd hate to have a war on
my conscience."

"Come with me." Trach led the way with such assurance that Dillingham
suspected this choice had been anticipated. The dinosaur didn't know
much about dentistry, but he could manage people of any type.

"How do they do anything? Dillingham inquired as they traversed the
prismatic outdoors. "These Electrolytes don't seem to have any hands, or
any other way to manipulate objects. How can they feed themselves, let
alone make war?"

"No problem. They employ remote-controlled devices for the manual tasks.
Communication is the same as power, and it does economize on burdensome
musculature."

"Then aphasia must be a very serious problem, when it occurs. It would
resemble paralysis."

"Exactly. You can be a hero, if only you can pacify the league. But
remember, you're dealing with conservatives."

"Sure." He reflected sombrely. It looked as though this were the brand
of "conservatism" that placed business interest ahead of cultural
welfare. "Can you offer any more advice, before I put my foot in it
again?"

Trach could. This, too, had been anticipated. The next few minutes were
an intensive briefing in diplomacy vis--vis Electrolus.

The representatives of the dental league were grouped like so many
stones in their auditorium, ringed by spider-legged devices that were
evidently their remote-controlled hands. Dillingham began to see why war
was still sanctioned here; the destruction of a mobile unit might be
inconvenient, but not fatal to the owner. Not so long as the melee was
distant.

"You'll have to do the talking," Trach said, handing him the transcoder.
The machine had been turned off to ensure the privacy of their recent
conversation. "They won't accept your sincerity if I prompt you. They
may ask me a question or two, but you'll have to convince them that your
way is best. Otherwise--"

"I know," Dillingham said unhappily. Outrage, war, the ruin of Trach's
mission, and forced sale of Dillingham's contract for carfare home. He
turned on the transcorder as he advanced to meet the dental league.

The spokesman wasted no time. "For what purpose have you started this
war, alien?"

Dillingham paused before replying, remembering Trach's caution against
impetuous remarks. "I think there has been a misunderstanding. I did not
intend to start a war." That should be imprecise enough. They were the
ones who intended to do battle rather than admit responsibility for the
aphasia, but they could save face by blaming it on him.

"Did you not directly and publicly contravene published League policy
and conspire to set the governing council against us?"

"I am a stranger to this planet. I thought I was privately advising a
patient of his best interests. I would gladly have left his care to you,
had he not insisted on my attention." And why had the patient sought an
alien dentist, unless the local ones had already given up on him?

The pause that preceded the next question reassured him that his surmise
had been correct. They were not going to challenge his right to minister
to an awkward case--not when that line of investigation could turn so
readily against them. "Then you do not question League policy or
practice?"

That was better. "Of course not. I should hope the League has the best
interests of the planet in mind."

"Then you will retract your demand that all gold be removed from the
teeth of our citizens?"

That was the sticky point. "No."

There was an angry flurry of sounds from the transcoder. Trach bowed his
head, disappointed.

"That is," Dillingham said carefully, "I will not make such a retraction
without the full consent of the League." Trach's head popped up again
hopefully, and the clamour faded. "Since it was my careless utterance
that precipitated this crisis, I feel it is best to obtain competent
advice before making any further statements on the matter."

Another pause. "The advice--of the League?"

"Nothing less will do."

The background discontent metamorphosed into background approval. Trach
nodded unobtrusively. Dillingham was off the hook for the moment--if he
didn't blunder again.

"A wise stipulation," the spokesman said. "What gave you the idea we
might object?"

And so to the critical point. "On my planet, the teeth are use
principally for the mechanical reduction of the food, and only
secondarily in connection with speech. Our teeth have no internal
mechanisms--none, at least, of an electronic nature. Therefore our
dentists think largely in terms of a single function: mastication. When
I looked into this patient's mouth, that was what concerned me."

"Astonishing," the spokesman agreed.

"Then I discovered that you generate an electronic signal in your teeth,
which is your means of communication. Because this is natural for you,
and biological, you may not be aware of the precision required to
modulate your signal so effectively, just as few human beings are aware
of the sophistication of their own bodily adaptations. The fact is, the
tiniest electro-magnetic interference in the immediate vicinity of your
teeth can play havoc with your control, both broadcasting and receiving.
The electrolytic action of the trace impurities in your gold alloy with
the fluids of the mouth generates just enough current to tarnish the
metal--and to distort the adjacent fields within the tooth. Thus the
signal sent by a person with such a situation differs from that he
intends. When this becomes severe enough to be noticeable, you have
aphasia."

He shook his head, glad they were listening (receiving) attentively.
"Possibly the field generated by the normal teeth is enough to start the
surface erosion. Because the interference is external to the tooth, you
will find no internal malfunction, which I know can be baffling. At any
rate, because of your particular mode of communication, you can't afford
metallic fillings until much more is known about this effect. That is
why I recommended the removal of all gold from the teeth. Since aphasia
is hardly my field, I should not have spoken prematurely. You have
helped me to understand that."

"But it is in our field," the spokesman said somewhat condescendingly.
"We are concerned with the complete function of the teeth, though it had
not occurred to us that trace tarnish would--" He stopped, unwilling to
admit ignorance.

"We had a great many problems developing suitable metallic restoration
on Earth," Dillingham said. "The work I inspected here was expert. I can
appreciate your reluctance to--that is, I'm sure the expenditure of
time--"

"We do not place convenience ahead of the welfare of the patient," the
spokesman said loftily.

"Then of course there is the expense. Gold is a rare and costly
substance, and the waste involved in removing--"

"To hell with the expense!" the spokesman said. Dillingham glanced at
his transcoder, startled. When had he programmed that vocabulary into
it?

"Now if you'd like me to retract--"

Hubbub. Trach was maintaining a straight reptilian frown over a
suppressed smile. The representatives of the dental league were suddenly
aware that they had cut the ground out from under their own position. If
he were to retract now, they would have to find some other way to treat
aphasia, and that could be a lot more complicated than his solution. But
if he didn't retract, they would lose face.

Trach came forward at this point. "If I may make a suggestion, purely as
a layman..."

The Electrolytes were silent, and Trach proceeded. "My charge's
ignorance seems to have placed us all in a difficult situation. Perhaps,
rather than require his apology, it would be preferable to banish him
from the planet."

Dillingham started. Whose side was the dinosaur on?

"This would reprimand him publicly for his mistake," Trach continued
blithely, "while allowing the League a free decision in the matter of
the gold. Perhaps the governing council would even be willing to make
other concessions in order to avoid the necessity of rescinding their
own hasty directive. Certainly this alien deserves punishment--"

"But he did mean well," the spokesman said. "The information about the
aphasia is, er, valuable."

Dillingham recognized the touch of the master. Trach had in one
diplomatic motion converted the spokesman to the defence of the alien,
while hinting at a profitable line of political attack. The League could
allow the directive to stand as an extraordinary favour to the council,
calling it an act of magnanimity instead of a humiliating reversal. The
council would then be in debt to the league... an attractive prospect
for the dentists, undoubtedly.

"Your attitude is certainly generous," Trach said. "Still, as owner of
his contract, I feel responsible. This alien has caused you unpardonable
embarrassment, and the least I can do is sell him to the mines."

Oh-oh.

"The mines!" the spokesman exclaimed. "We can't have that. He has done
us a favour, really. We should purchase his contract from you, rather
than--"

"But then you would have him on your hands, and he really shouldn't
remain to--"

The spokesman pondered. True. We would much prefer to take it from here
ourselves. His presence would be inconvenient, at best."

"And the mines of Ra offer a very good price for dentists, since there
is a chronic shortage."

Dillingham's knees wobbled again. Was Trach determined to do him in?

The hubbub resumed. "Because they don't live very long!" the spokesman
said. "No, it may be inconvenient, but we are not barbarians. We shall
purchase his contract and abolish it, so he can go elsewhere."

"He might not want to leave such a fair world as this," Trach remarked,
and once again Dillingham wished he'd quit while he was ahead. "Though I
suppose if you were to sponsor him for something time-consuming, such as
further education--"

"The very thing. We can select a very complicated programme such as--"

"Such as the one at the Galactic University of Dentistry, School of
Prosthodontistry," Trach finished neatly. "A most perceptive decision. I
can, for a nominal fee, make the arrangements immediately."

Dillingham almost fainted from surprise and relief. He had thought the
friendly dinosaur had forgotten that conversation.

"Excellent," the spokesman said, though it was evident that he had had a
different programme in mind. "Now that we have solved that problem, we
can mmph the council and set about scrutchulating the hornswoggle."

Trach looked quickly at Dillingham and held one webbed finger to his
lips. Together they beat an inconspicuous retreat.

"But I'm not a dentist!" Judy told the muck-a-muck. "I'm just looking
for Dr. Dillingham, so I can--assist him."

"He departed last week," the whale-like ruler of water-world Gleep
communicated. This was the first time she had conversed with an entity
while standing inside him, but such was galactic existence.

"Then I must follow him."

"Do you realize that we paid a hundred pounds of premium-grade
frumpstiggle for your contract? You were billed as an associate of Dr.
Dillingham, the famous exodontist. Now the prince's molars are beginning
to itch again, and only a practitioner of Dillingham's status can abate
the condition."

"If Dr. Dillingham made the restorations, those teeth should be giving
no trouble," she said loyally. "Probably all your son needs now is some
instruction in preventive maintenance. Teeth can't be ignored, you know;
you have to take care of them."

"That's exactly what he said! You are his associate!"

She sighed. "In that respect, yes. But as for--"

"Excellent! Provide him with expert instruction."

"First we have to come to an understanding," she said. She was, by fits
and starts, learning how to deal with galactics. "If I instruct the
prince, you must agree to send me to the planet that Dr. Dillingham went
to."

"Gladly. He travelled hence with a free-lance diplomat from Trachos.
Their destination was--let me look it up in my tertiary memory
bank--Electrolus."

"Fine. I'll go there." Then she reconsidered. "I came to Enen too late,
and to Gleep too late. How can I be sure he'll still be at Electrolus,
when...?"

The communications tentacles of the huge Gleep creature's lung chamber
waved, and the transcoder dutifully rendered this visual signal into
English. "A perspicacious point. Suppose we send you to the diplomat's
following client? That's--one moment, please--Ra. The radium exporter."

She was dubious. "But what if Dr. Dillingham stays at Electrolus after
all?"

"Then at least you'll be in touch with Trach, the diplomat. He is an
obliging fellow, and he has his own ship."

She considered that, still not entirely satisfied. She had had
experience with obliging fellows possessing their own transportation.
Dillingham had been a pleasing contrast--so serious, so dedicated to his
profession.

But of course this was not Earth, and it did seem to be her best chance.
"All right. Ra it is. Let's see the prince now."

CHAPTER FIVE
------------

He entered the booth when his turn came and waited somewhat
apprehensively for it to perform. The panel behind shut him in and
ground tight.

The interior was dark and unbearably hot, making sweat break out and
stream down his body. Then the temperature dropped so precipitously that
the moisture crystallized upon his skin and flaked away with the
violence of his shivering. The air grew thick and bitter, then gaspingly
rare. Light blazed, then faded into impenetrable black. A complete sonic
spectrum of noise smote him, followed by crashing silence. His nose
reacted to a gamut of irritation. He sneezed.

Abruptly it was spring on a clover hillside, waft of nectar and hum of
bumble-bee. The air was refreshingly brisk. The booth had zeroed in on
his metabolism.

"Identity?" a deceptively feminine voice inquired from nowhere, and a
sign flashed with the word printed in italics. English.

"My name is Dillingham," he said clearly, remembering his instructions.
"I am a male mammalian biped evolved on planet Earth. I am applying for
admission to the School of Prosthodontics as an initiate of the
appropriate level."

After a pause the booth replied sweetly: "Misinformation. You are a
quadruped."

"Correction," Dillingham said quickly. "I am evolved from quadruped." He
spread his hands and touched the wall. Technically tetrapod, anterior
limbs no longer employed for locomotion. Digits posses sensitivity,
dexterity--"

"Noted." But before he could breathe relief, it had another objection:
"Earth planet has not yet achieved galactic accreditation. Application
invalid."

"I have been sponsored by the Dental League of Electrolus," he said. He
saw already how far he would have got without that potent endorsement.

"Verified. Provisional application granted. Probability of acceptance
after preliminary investigation: twenty-one per cent. Fee: Thirteen
thousand, two hundred and five dollars, four cents, seven mills, payable
immediately."

"Agreed," he said, appalled at both the machine's efficiency in adapting
to his language and conventions, and the cost of application. He knew
that the fee covered only the seventy hour investigation of his
credentials; if finally admitted as a student, he would have to pay
another fee of as much as a hundred thousand dollars for the first term.
If rejected, he would get no rebate.

His sponsor, Electrolus, was paying for it, thanks to Trach's diplomatic
footwork. If he failed to gain admission, there would be no
consequence--except that his chance to really improve himself would be
gone. He could never afford training at the University on his own, even
if the sponsorship requirement should be waived.

Even so, he hoped that what the University had to offer was worth it.
Over thirteen thousand dollars had already been drained from the
Electrolus account here by his verbal agreement--for a twenty-one per
cent probability of acceptance!

"Present your anterior limb, buccal surface forward."

He put out his left hand again, deciding that "buccal" in this context
equated with the back of the hand. He was nervous in spite of the
assurance he had been given that this process was harmless. A mist
appeared around it, puffed and vanished, leaving an iridescent band
clasped around, or perhaps bonded into, the skin of his wrist.

The opposite side of the booth opened and he stepped into a lighted
corridor. He held up his hand and saw that the left of it was bright
while the right was dull. This remained constant even when he twisted
his wrist, the glow being independent of his motion. He proceeded left.

At the end of the passage was a row of elevators. Other creatures of
diverse proportions moved towards these, guided by the glows on their
appendages. His own led him to a particular unit. Its panel was open,
and he entered.

The door was closed as he took hold of the supportive bars. The unit
moved, not up or down as he had expected, but backwards. He clung
desperately to the support as the fierce acceleration hurled him at the
door.

There was something like a porthole in the side through which he could
make out racing lights and darknesses. If these were stationary sources
of contrast, his velocity was phenomenal. His stomach jumped as the
vehicle dipped and tilted; then it plummeted down as though dropped from
a cliff.

Dillingham was reminded of an amusement park he had visited as a child
on Earth. There had been a ride through the dark something like this. He
was sure that the transport system of the university had not been
designed for thrills, however; it merely reflected the fact that there
was a long way to go and many others in line. The elevators would not
function at all for any creature not wearing proper identification.
Established galactics took such things in stride without even noticing.

Finally the roller-coaster/elevator decelerated and stopped. The door
opened and he stepped dizzily into his residence for the duration,
suppressing incipient motion sickness.

The apartment was attractive enough. The air was sweet, the light
moderate, the temperature comfortable. Earth-like vines decorated the
trellises, and couches fit for bipeds were placed against the walls. In
the centre of the main room stood a handsome but mysterious device.

Something emerged from an alcove. It was a creature resembling an
oversized pincushion with legs, one of which sported the ubiquitous
iridescent band. It honked.

"Greetings, room-mate," a speaker from the central artifact said.
Dillingham realized that it was a multiple-dialect translator.

"How do you do," he said. The translator honked, and the pincushion came
all the way into the room.

"I am from no equivalent term," it said in tootles.

Dillingham hesitated to comment, until he realized that the confusion
lay in the translation. There was no name in English for Pincushion's
planet, since Earth knew little of galactic geography and nothing of
interspecies commerce. "Substitute "Pincushion" for the missing term,"
he advised the machine, "and make the same kind of adjustment for any
terms that may not be renderable into Pincushion's dialect." He turned
to the creature. "I am from Earth. I presume you are also here to make
application for admittance to the School of Prosthodontics?"

The translator honked, once. Dillingham waited, but that was all.

Pincushion honked. "Yes, of course. I'm sure all beings assigned to this
dormitory are 1.0 gravity, oxygen-imbibing ambulators applying as
students. The administration is very careful to group compatible
species."

Apparently a single honk could convey a paragraph. Perhaps there were
frequencies he couldn't hear. Then again, it might be the inefficiency
of his own tongue. "I'm new to all this," he admitted. "I know very
little of the ways of the galaxy, or what is expected of me here."

"I'll be happy to show you around," Pincushion said. "My planet has been
sending students here for, well, not a long time, but several centuries.
We even have a couple of instructors here, at the lower levels." There
was a note of pride in the rendition. "Maybe one of these millenia we'll
manage to place a supervisor."

Already Dillingham could imagine the prestige that would carry.

At that moment the elevator disgorged another passenger. This was a tall
oak-like creature with small leaf-like tentacles fluttering at its side.
The bright applicant-band circled the centre bark. It looked at the
decorative vines of the apartment and spoke with the whistle of wind
through dead branches: "Appalling captivity."

The sound of the translations seemed to bring its attention to the other
occupants. "May your probability of acceptance be better than mine," it
said by way of greeting. "I am a humble modest branch from Treetrunk
(the translator learned the naming convention quickly) and despite my
formidable knowledge of prosthodontica my percentage is a mere sixty."

Somewhere in there had been a honk, so Dillingham knew that simultaneous
translations were being performed. This device made the little
dual-track transcoders seem primitive.

"You are more fortunate than I," Pincushion replied. "I stand at only
forty-eight per cent."

They both looked at Dillingham. Pincushion had knobby stalks that were
probably eyes, and Treetrunk's apical discs vibrated like the greenery
of a poplar sapling.

Twenty-one per cent," Dillingham said sheepishly.

There was an awkward silence. "Well these are only estimates based upon
the past performances of your species," Pincushion said. "Perhaps your
predecessors were not apt."

"I don't think I have any predecessors," Dillingham said. "Earth isn't
accredited yet." He hesitated to admit that Earth hadn't even achieved
true space travel, by galactic definition.

He had never been embarrassed for his planet before! But he had never
had occasion to consider himself a planetary representative before,
either.

"Experience and competence count more than some machine's guess, I'm
sure," Treetrunk said. "I've been practising on my world for six years.
If you're--"

"Well, I did practice for ten years on Earth."

"You see--that will triple your probability when they find out,"
Pincushion said encouragingly. "They just gave you a low probability
because no one from your planet has applied before."

He hoped they were right, but his stomach didn't settle. He doubted that
as sophisticated a set-up as the Galactic University would have to stoop
to such crude approximation. The administration already knew quite a bit
about him from the preliminary application, and his ignorance of
galactic method was sure to count heavily against him. "Are
there--references here?" he inquired. "Facilities? If I could look them
over--"

"Good idea!" Pincushion said. "Come--the operatory is this way, and
there is a small museum of equipment."

There was. The apartment had an annex equipped with an astonishing array
of dental technology. There was enough for him to study for years before
he could be certain of mastery. He decided to concentrate on the racked
texts first, after learning that they could be fed into the translator
for ready assimilation in animated projection.

"Standard stuff," Treetrunk said, making a noise like chafing bark. "I
believe I'll take an estimation."

As Dillingham returned to the main room with an armful of the box-like
texts, the elevator loosed another creature. This was a four-legged
cylinder with a head tapered like that of an anteater, and peculiarly
thin jointed arms terminating in a series of thorns.

It seemed to him that such physical structure would be virtually ideal
for dentistry. The thorns were probably animate rotary burrs, and the
elongated snout might reach directly into the patient's mouth for
inspection of close work without the imposition of a mirror. After the
initial introductions he asked Anteater how his probability stood.

"Ninety-eight per cent," the creature replied in an offhand manner. "Our
kind seldom miss. We're specialized for this sort of thing."

Specialization--there was the liability of the human form, Dillingham
thought. Men were among the most generalized of Earth's denizens, except
for their developed brains--and obviously these galactics had equivalent
intellectual potential, and had been in space so long they had been able
to adapt physically for something as narrow as dentistry. The outlook
for him remained bleak, competitively.

A robot-like individual and a native from Electrolus completed the
apartment's complement. Dillingham hadn't known that his sponsor-planet
was entering one of its own in the same curriculum, though this didn't
affect him particularly.

Six diverse creatures, counting himself--all dentists on their home
worlds, all specializing in prosthodontics, all eager to pass the
entrance examinations. All male, within reasonable definition--the
university was very strict about the proprieties. This was only one
apartment in a small city reserved for applicants. The university proper
covered the rest of the planet.

They learned all about it that evening at the indoctrination briefing,
guided to the lecture-hall by a blue glow manifested on each
identification band. The hall was monstrous; only the oxygen-breathers
attended this session, but they numbered almost fifty thousand. Other
halls catered to differing life-forms simultaneously.

The university graduated over a million highly skilled dentists every
term, and had a constant enrollment of twenty million. Dillingham didn't
know how many terms it took to graduate--the programmes might be
variable--but the incidence of depletion seemed high. Even the total
figure represented a very minor proportion of the dentistry in the
galaxy. This fraction was extremely important, however, since mere
admission as a freshman student here was equivalent to graduation
elsewhere.

There were generally only a handful of DU graduates on any civilized
planet. These were automatically granted life tenures as instructors at
the foremost planetary colleges, or established as consultants for the
most challenging cases available. Even the drop-outs had healthy
futures.

Instructors for the U itself were drawn from its own most gifted
graduates. The top one hundred, approximately--of each class of a
million--were siphoned off for special training and retained, and a
great number were recruited from the lower ranking body of graduates:
individuals who demonstrated superior qualifications in subsequent
galactic practice. A few instructors were even recruited from
non-graduates, when their specialities were so restricted and their
skills so great that such exceptions seemed warranted.

The administrators came largely from the University of Administration,
dental division, situated on another planet, and they wielded enormous
power. The University President was the virtual dictator of the planet,
and his pronouncements had the force of law in dental matters throughout
the galaxy. Indeed, Dillingham thought as he absorbed the information,
if there were any organization that approached galactic overlordship, it
would be the Association of University Presidents. AUP had the authority
and the power to quarantine any world found guilty of wilful malpractice
in any of the established fields, and since any quarantine covered all
fields, it was devastating. An abstract was run showing the consequence
of the last absolute quarantine: within a year that world had collapsed
in anarchy. What followed that was not at all pretty.

Dillingham saw that the level of skill engendered by University training
did indeed transcend any ordinary practice. No one on Earth had any
inkling of the techniques considered commonplace here. His imagination
was saturated with the marvel of it all. His dream of knowledge for the
sake of knowledge was a futile one; such training was far too valuable
to be reserved for the satisfaction of the individual. No wonder
graduates became public servants! The investment was far less monetary
than cultural and technological, for the sponsoring planet.

His room-mates were largely unimpressed. "Everyone knows the
universities wield galactic power," Treetrunk said. "This is only one
school of many, and hardly the most important. Take Finance U, now--"

"Or Transportation U," Pincushion added. "Every space ship, every
stellar conveyor, designed and operated by graduates of--"

"Or Communication," Anteater said. "Comm U has several campuses, even,
and they're not dinky little planets like this one, either. Civilization
is impossible without communications. What's a few bad teeth, compared
to that?"

Dillingham was shocked. "But all of you are dentists. How can you take
such tremendous knowledge and responsibility so casually?"

"Oh, come now," Anteater said. "The technology of dentistry hasn't
changed in millennia. It's a staid, dated institution. Why get excited?"

"No point in letting ideology go to our heads," Treetrunk agreed. "I'm
here because this training will set me up for life back home. I won't
have to set up a practice at all; I'll be a consultant. It's the best
training in the galaxy--we all know that--but we must try to keep it in
perspective."

The others signified agreement. Dillingham saw that he was a minority of
one. All the others were interested in the education not for its own
sake but for the monetary and prestigious benefits they could derive
from a degree.

And all of them had much higher probabilities of admission than he. Was
he wrong?

Next day they faced a battery of field tests. Dillingham had to use the
operatory equipment to perform specified tasks: excavation, polishing,
placement of amalgam, measurement, manufacture of assorted
impressions--on a number of familiar and unfamiliar jaws. He had to
diagnose and prescribe. He had to demonstrate facility in all phases of
laboratory work--facility he now felt woefully deficient in. The
equipment was versatile, and he had no particular difficulty adjusting
to it, but it was so well made and precise that he was certain his own
abilities fell far short of those for whom it was intended.

The early exercises were routine, and he was able to do them easily in
the time recommended. Gradually, however, they became more difficult,
and he had to concentrate as never before to accomplish the assignments
at all, let alone on schedule. There were several jaws so alien that he
could not determine their modes of action, and had to pass them by even
though the treatment seemed simple enough. This was because he
remembered his recent experiences with galactic dentition, and the
unsuspected mechanisms of seemingly ordinary teeth, and so refused to
perform repairs even on a dummy jaw that might be more harmful than no
repair at all.

During the rest breaks he chatted with his companions, all in
neighbouring operatories, and learned to his dismay that none of them
were having difficulties. "How can you be sure of the proper occlusal on
#17?" he asked Treetrunk. "There was no upper mandible present for
comparison."

"That was an Oopoo jaw," Treetrunk rustled negligently. "Oopoos have no
uppers. There's just a bony plate, perfectly regular. Didn't you know
that?"

"You recognize all the types of jaw in the galaxy?" Dillingham asked,
half jokingly,

"Certainly. I have read at least one text on the dentures of every
accredited species. We Treetrunks never forget."

Eidetic memory! How could a mere man compete with a creature who was
able to peruse a million or more texts, and retain every detail of each?
He understood more plainly why his probability of admittance was so low.
Perhaps even that figure was unrealistically high!

"What was #36, the last one?" Pincushion inquired. "I didn't recognize
it, and I thought I knew them all."

Treetrunk wilted slightly. "I never saw that one before," he admitted.
"It must have been extragalactic, or a theoretic simulacrum designed to
test our extrapolation."

"The work was obvious, however," Anteater observed. "I polished it off
in four seconds."

"Four seconds!" All the other were amazed.

"Well, we are adapted for this sort of routine," Anteater said
patronizingly. "Our burrs are built in, and all the rest of it. My main
delay is generally in diagnosis. But #36 was a straightforward labial
cavity requiring a plastoid substructure and metallic overlay, heated to
540 degrees Centigrade for thirty-seven microseconds."

"Thirty-nine microseconds," Treetrunk corrected him, a shade smugly.
"You forgot to allow for the red-shift in the overhead beam. But that's
still remarkable time."

"I employed my natural illumination, naturally," Anteater said, just as
smugly. He flashed a yellow light from his snout.

"No distortion there. But I believe my alloy differs slightly from what
is considered standard, which may account for the discrepancy. Your
point is well taken, nevertheless. I trust none of the others forgot
that adjustment?"

The Electrolyte settled an inch. "I did," he confessed.

Dillingham was too stunned to be despondent. Had all of them diagnosed
#36 so readily, and were they all so perceptive as to be automatically
aware of the wavelength of a particular beam of light? Or were such
readings available through the equipment, that he didn't know about, and
wouldn't be competent to use if he did know? He had pondered that jaw
for the full time allotted and finally given it up untouched. True, the
cavity had appeared to be perfectly straightforward, but it was too
clean to ring true. Could--

The buzzer sounded for the final session and they dispersed to their
several compartments.

Dillingham was contemplating #41 with mounting frustration when he heard
Treetrunk, via the translator extension, call to Anteater. "I can't seem
to get this S-curve excavation right," he complained. "Would you lend me
your snout?"

A joke, of course, Dillingham thought. Discussion of cases after they
were finished was one thing, but consultation during the exam itself--!

"Certainly," Anteater replied. He trotted past Dillingham's unit and
entered Treetrunk's operatory. There was the muted beep of his
high-speed proboscis drill. "You people confined to manufactured tools
labour under such a dreadful disadvantage," he remarked. "It's a wonder
you can qualify at all!"

"Hmph," Treetrunk replied good-naturedly... and later returned the
favour by providing a spot diagnosis based on his memory of an obscure
chapter of an ancient text, to settle a case that had Anteater in doubt.
"It isn't as though we're competing against each other," he said. "Every
point counts!"

Dillingham ploughed away, upset. Of course there had been nothing in the
posted regulations specifically forbidding such procedure, but he had
taken it as implied. Even if galactic ethics differed from his own in
this respect, he couldn't see his way clear to draw on any knowledge or
skill other than his own. Not in this situation.

Meanwhile, #41 was a different kind of problem. The directive, instead
of saying "Do what is necessary", as it had for the #36 they had
discussed during the break, was specific. "Create an appropriate
mesiocclusodistal metal-alloy inlay for the afflicted fifth molar in
this humanoid jaw."

This was perfectly feasible. Despite its oddities as judged by Earthly
standards, it was humanoid and therefore roughly familiar to him. Men
did not have more than three molars in a row, but other species did. He
had by this time mastered the sophisticated equipment well enough to do
the job in a fraction of the time he had required on Earth. He could
have the inlay shaped and cast within the time limit.

The trouble was, his experience and observation indicated that the
specified reconstruction was not proper in this case. It would require
the removal of far more healthy dentin than was necessary, for one
thing. In addition, there was evidence of persistent inflammation in the
gingival tissue that could herald periodontal disease.

He finally disobeyed the instructions and placed a temporary filling. He
hoped he would be given the opportunity to explain his action, though he
was afraid he had already failed the exam. There was just too much to
do, he knew too little, and the competition was too strong.

The field examination finished in the afternoon, and nothing was
scheduled for that evening. Next day the written exam--actually a
combination of written, verbal and demonstrative questions--was due, and
everyone except Treetrunk was deep in the review texts. Treetrunk was
dictating a letter home, his parameter of the translator blanked out so
that his narration would not disturb the others.

Dillingham pored over the three-dimensional pictures and captions
produced by the tomes while listening to the accompanying lecture. There
was so much to master in such a short time! It was fascinating, but he
could handle only a tiny fraction of it. He wondered what phenomenal
material remained to be presented in the courses themselves, since all
the knowledge of the galaxy seemed to be required just to pass the
entrance exam. Tooth transplantation? Tissue regeneration? Restoration
of living enamel, rather than crude metal fillings?

The elevator opened. A creature rather like a walking oyster emerged.
Its yard-wide shell parted to reveal eye-stalks and a comparatively
dainty mouth. "This is the--dental yard?" it inquired timorously.

"Great purple quills!" Pincushion swore quietly. "One of those insidious
panhandlers. I thought they'd cleared such obtusities out long ago."

Treetrunk, closest to the elevator, looked up and switched on his
section of the translator. "The whole planet is dental, idiot!" he
snapped after the query had been repeated for him. "This is a private
dormitory."

The oyster persisted. "But you are off-duty dentists? I have a terrible
toothache--"

"We are applicants," Treetrunk informed it imperiously. "What you want
is the clinic. Please leave us alone."

"But the clinic is closed. Please--my jaw pains me so that I can not
eat. I am an old clam--"

Treetrunk impatiently switched off the translator and resumed his
letter. No one else said anything.

Dillingham could not let this pass. "Isn't there some regular dentist
you can see who can relieve the pain until morning? We are studying for
a very important examination."

"I have no credit--no stiggle--no money for private service," Oyster
wailed. "The clinic is closed for the night, and my tooth--"

Dillingham looked at the pile of texts before him. He had so little
time, and the material was so important. He had to make a good score
tomorrow to mitigate today's disaster.

"Please," Oyster whined. "It pains me so--"

Dillingham gave up. He was not sure regulations permitted it, but he had
to do something. There was a chance he could at least relieve the pain.
"Come with me," he said.

Pincushion waved his pins, that were actually sensitive celia capable of
intricate manoeuvring. "Not in our operatory," he protested. "How can we
concentrate with that going on?"

Dillingham restrained his unreasonable anger and took the patient to the
elevator. After some errors of navigation he located a vacant testing
operatory elsewhere in the application section. Fortunately the
translators were everywhere, all keyed to everything, so he could
converse with the creature and clarify its complaint.

"The big flat one," it said as it propped itself awkwardly in the chair
and opened its shell. "It hurts."

Dillingham took a look. The complaint was valid: most of the teeth had
conventional plasticene fillings, but one of these had somehow been
dislodged from the proximal surface of a molar: a Class II restoration.
The gap was packed with rancid vegetable matter--seaweed?--and was
undoubtedly quite uncomfortable for the patient.

"You must understand," he cautioned the creature, "that I am not a
regular dentist here, or even a student. I have neither the authority
nor the competence to do any work of a permanent nature on your teeth.
All I can do is clean out the cavity and attempt to relieve the pain so
that you can get along until the clinic opens in the morning. Then an
authorized dentist can do the job properly. Do you understand?"

"It hurts," Oyster repeated.

Dillingham located the creature's planet in the directory and punched
out the formula for a suitable anaesthetic. The dispenser gurgled and
rolled out a cylinder and swab. He squeezed the former and dabbed with
the latter around the affected area, hiding his irritation at the
patient's evident inability to sit still even for this momentary
operation. While waiting for it to take effect, he requested more
information from the translator--a versatile instrument.

"Dominant species of Planet Oyster," the machine reported. "Highly
intelligent, non-specialized, emotionally stable life-form." Dillingham
tried to reconcile this with what he had already observed of his
patient, and concluded that individuals must vary considerably from the
norm. He listened to further vital information, and soon had a fair
notion of Oyster's general nature and the advisable care of his
dentition. There did not seem to be anything to prevent his treating
this complaint.

He applied a separator (over the patient's protest) and cleaned out the
impacted debris with a spoon excavator without difficulty. But Oyster
shied away at the sight of the rotary diamond burr. "Hurts!" he
protested.

"I have given you adequate local anaesthesia," Dillingham explained.
"You should feel nothing except a slight vibration in your jaw, which
will not be uncomfortable. This is a standard drill, the same kind
you've seen many times before." As he spoke he marvelled at what he now
termed standard. The burr was shaped like nothing--literally--on Earth,
and it rotated at 150,000 r.p.m.--several times the maximum employed
back at home. It was awesomely efficient. "I must clean the surfaces of
the cavity--"

Oyster shut mouth and shell firmly. "Hurts!" his whisper emerged through
clenched defences.

Dillingham thought despairingly of the time this was costing him. If he
didn't return to his texts soon, he would forfeit his remaining chance
to pass the written exam.

He sighed and put away the power tool. "Perhaps I can clean it with the
hand tools," he said. "I'll have to use this rubber dam, though, since
this will take more time."

One look at the patient convinced him otherwise. Regretfully he put
aside the rubber square that would have kept the field of operation dry
and clean while he worked.

He had to break through the overhanging enamel with a chisel, the
patient wincing every time he lifted the mallet and doubling the
necessity for the assistant he didn't have. Back on Earth Miss Galland
had always calmed the patient. A power mallet would have helped, but
that, too, was out. This was as nervous a patient as he had ever had.

It was a tedious and difficult task. He had to scrape off every portion
of the ballroom cavity from an awkward angle, hardly able to see what he
was doing since he needed a third hand for the dental mirror.

It would have to be a Class II--jammed in the side of the molar and
facing the adjacent molar, and both teeth so sturdy as to have very
little give. A Class II was the very worst restoration to attempt in
makeshift fashion. He could have accelerated the process by doing a
slipshod job, but it was not in him to skimp even when he knew it was
only for a night. Half an hour passed before he performed the toilet:
blowing out the loose debris with a jet of warm air, swabbing the
interior with alcohol, drying it again.

"Now I'm going to block this up with a temporary wax," he told Oyster.
"This will not stand up to intensive chewing, but should hold you
comfortably until morning." Not that the warning was likely to make much
difference. The trouble had obviously started when the original filling
came loose, but it had been weeks since that had happened. Evidently the
patient had not bothered to have it fixed until the pain became
unbearable--and now that the pain was gone, Oyster might well delay
longer, until the work had to be done all over again. The short-sighted
refuge from initial inconvenience was hardly a monopoly of Earthly
sufferers.

"No," Oyster said, jolting him back to business. "Wax tastes bad."

"This is pseudo-wax--sterile and guaranteed tasteless to most life
forms. And it is only for the night. As soon as you report to the
clinic--"

"Tastes bad!" the patient insisted, starting to close his shell.

Dillingham wondered again just what the translator had meant by "highly
intelligent... emotionally stable". He kept his peace and dialled for
amalgam.

"Nasty colour," Oyster said.

"But this is pigmented red, to show that the filling is intended as
temporary. It will not mar your appearance, in this location. I don't
want the clinic to have any misunderstanding." Or the University
administration!

The shell clamped all the way shut, nearly pinning his fingers. "Nasty
colour!", muffled.

More was involved here than capricious difficulty. Did this patient
intend to go to the clinic at all? Oyster might be angling for a
permanent filling. "What colour does suit you?"

"Gold." The shell inched open.

It figured. Well, better to humour this patient, rather than try to
force him into a more sensible course. Dillingham could make a report to
the authorities, who could then roust out Oyster and check the work
properly.

At his direction, the panel extruded a ribbon of gold foil.

He placed this in the miniature annealing oven and waited for the slow
heat to act.

"You're burning it up!" Oyster protested.

"By no means. It is necessary to make the gold cohesive, for better
service. You see--"

"Hot," Oyster said. So much for helpful explanations. He could have
employed noncohesive metal, but this was a lesser technique that did not
appeal to him.

At length he had suitable ropes of gold for the slow, delicate task of
building up the restoration inside the cavity. The first layer was down;
once he malleted it into place--

The elevator burst asunder. A second oyster charged into the operatory
waving a translucent tube. "Villain!" it exclaimed. "What are you doing
to my grandfather?"

Dillingham was taken aback. "Your grandfather? I'm trying to make him
comfortable until--"

The newcomer would have none of it. "You're torturing him. My poor,
dear, long-suffering grandfather! Monster! How could you?"

"But I'm only--"

Young Oyster levelled the tube at him. Its end was solid, but Dillingham
knew it was a genuine weapon. "Get away from my grandfather. I saw you
hammering spikes into his venerable teeth, you sadist! I'm taking him
home!"

Dillingham did not move. He considered this a stance of necessity, not
courage. "Not until I complete this work. I can't let him go out like
this, with the excavation exposed."

"Beast! Pervert! Humanoid!" the youngster screamed. "I'll volatize you!"

Searing light beamed from the solid tube. The metal mallet in
Dillingham's hand melted and dripped to the floor.

He leaped for the oyster and grappled for the weapon. The giant shell
clamped shut on his hand as they fell to the floor. He struggled to
right himself, but discovered that the creature had withdrawn all its
appendages and now was nothing more than a two-hundred-pound clam--with
Dillingham's left hand firmly pinioned.

"Assaulter of innocents!" the youngster squeaked from within the shell.
"Unprovoked attacker! Get your foul paw out of my ear!"

"Friend, I'll be glad to do that--as soon as you let go," he gasped.
What a situation for a dentist!

"Help! Butchery! Genocide!"

Dillingham finally found his footing and hauled on his arm. The shell
tilted and lifted from the floor, but gradually let go of the trapped
hand. He quickly sat on the shell to prevent it from opening again and
surveyed the damage.

Blood trickled from multiple scratches along the wrist, and his hand
smarted strenuously, but there was no serious wound.

"Let my grandson go!" the old oyster screamed now. "You have no right to
muzzle him like that! This is a free planet!"

Dillingham marvelled once more at the translator's original description
of the species. These just did not seem to be reasonable creatures. He
stood up quickly and took the fallen tube.

"Look, gentlemen--I'm very sorry if I have misunderstood your
conventions, but I must insist that the young person leave."

Young Oyster peeped out of his shell. "Unwholesome creature! Eater of
sea-life! How dare you make demands of us?"

Dillingham pointed the tube at him. He had no idea how to fire it, but
hoped the creature could be bluffed. "Please leave at once. I will
release your grandfather as soon as the work is done."

The youngster focused on the weapon and obeyed, grumbling. Dillingham
touched the elevator lock the moment he was gone.

The oldster was back in the chair. Somehow the seat adjustment had
changed, so that this was now a basket-like receptacle, obviously more
comfortable for this patient. "You are more of a being than you appear,"
Oyster remarked. "I was never able to handle that juvenile so
efficiently."

Dillingham contemplated the droplets of metal splattered on the floor.
That heat-beam had been entirely too close--and deadly. His hands began
to shake in delayed reaction. He was not a man of violence, and his own
quick action had surprised him. The stress of recent events had
certainly got to him, he thought ruefully.

"But he's a good lad, really," Oyster continued. "A trifle
impetuous--but he inherited that from me. I hope you won't report this
little misunderstanding."

He hadn't thought of that, but of course it was his duty to make a
complete report on the melee and the reason for it. Valuable equipment
might have been damaged, not to mention the risk to his own welfare.
"I'm afraid I must," he said.

"But they are horribly strict!" the oldster protested. "They will throw
him into a foul salty cesspool! They'll boil him in vinegar every hour!
His children will be stigmatized!"

"I can't take the law into my own hands." But of course he already had.
"The court--or whatever it is here--must decide. I must make an accurate
report."

"He was only looking out for his ancestor. That's very important to our
culture. He's a good--"

The Oyster paused as Dillingham nodded negatively. His shell quivered,
and the soft flesh within turned yellow.

Dillingham was alarmed. "Sir--are you well?"

The translator spoke on its own initiative. "The Oyster shows the
symptoms of severe emotional shock. His health will be endangered unless
immediate relief is available."

All he needed was a dying galactic on top of everything else! "How can I
help him?" The shell was gradually sagging closed with an insidious
suggestiveness.

"The negative emotional stimulus must be alleviated," the translator
said. "At his age, such disturbances are--"

Dillingham took one more look at the visibly putrefying creature. "All
right!" he shouted desperately. "I'll withhold my report!"

The collapse ceased. "You won't tell anyone?" the oldster inquired from
the murky depths. "No matter what?"

"No one." Dillingham was not at all happy, but saw no other way out.
Better silence than a dead patient.

The night was well advanced when he finished with Oyster and sent him
home. He had forfeited his study period and, by the time he was able to
relax, his sleep as well. He would have to brave the examination without
preparation.

It was every bit as bad as he had anticipated. His mind was dull from
lack of sleep and his basic fund of information was meagre indeed on the
galactic scale. The questions would have been quite difficult even if he
had been fully prepared. There were entire categories he had to skip
because they concerned specialized procedures buried in his unread
review texts. If only he had had time to prepare!

The other were having trouble too. He could see their humped over their
tables, or under them, depending on physiology, scribbling notes as they
figured ratios and tolerances and indices of material properties. Even
Treetrunk looked hard-pressed. If Treetrunk, with a galactic library of
dental information filed in his celluloid brain, could wilt with the
effort, how could a poor humanoid from a backward planet hope to
succeed?

But he carried on to the discouraging end, knowing that his score would
damn him but determined to do his best whatever the situation. It seemed
increasingly ridiculous, but he still wanted to be admitted to the
university. The thought of deserting this stupendous reservoir of
information and technique was appalling.

During the afternoon break he collapsed on his bunk and slept. One day
remained, one final trial: the interrogation by the Admissions Advisory
Council. This, he understood, was the roughest gauntlet of all; more
applicants were rejected on the basis of this interview than from both
other tests combined.

An outcry woke him in the evening. "The probabilities are being posted!"
Pincushion honked, prodding him with a spine that was not, despite its
appearance, sharp.

"Mine's twenty-one per cent, not a penny more," Dillingham muttered
sleepily. "Low--too low."

"The revised probs!" Pincushion said. "Based on the test scores. The
warning buzzer just sounded."

Dillingham snapped alert. He remembered now: no results were posted for
the field and written exams. Instead the original estimates of
acceptance were modified in the light of individual data. This provided
unlikely applicants with an opportunity to bow out before submitting
themselves to the indignity of a negative recommendation by the AA
Council. It also undoubtedly simplified the work of that body by cutting
down on the number of interviewees.

They clustered in a tense semi-circle around the main translator. The
results would be given in descending order. Dillingham wondered why more
privacy in such matters wasn't provided, but assumed that the University
had its reasons. Possibly the constant comparisons encouraged better
effort, or weeded out the quitters that much sooner.

"Anteater," the speaker said. It paused. "Ninety-six per cent."

Anteater twitched his nose in relief. "I must have guessed right on
those stress formulations," he said. "I knew I was in trouble on those
computations."

Treetrunk--eighty-five per cent." Treetrunk almost uprooted himself with
glee. "A twenty-five per cent increase! I must have maxed the written
portion after all!"

"Robot--sixty-five per cent." The robotoid took the news impassively.

The remaining three fidgeted, knowing that their scores had to be lower.

"Pincushion--fifty per cent." The creature congratulated himself on an
even chance, though he had obviously hoped to do better.

"Electrolyte--twenty-three per cent." The rocklike individual rolled
towards his compartment. "I was afraid of that. I'm going home."

The rest watched Dillingham sympathetically, anticipating the worst. It
came. "Earthman--three per cent," the speaker said plainly.

The last reasonable hope was gone. The odds were thirty to one against
him, and his faith in miracles was small. The others scattered,
embarrassed for him, while Dillingham stood rigid.

He had known he was in trouble--but this! To be given, on the basis of
thorough testing, practically no chance of admission...

He was forty-one years old. He felt like crying.

The Admissions Advisory Council was alien even by the standard he had
learned in the galaxy. There were only three members--but as soon as
this occurred to him, he realized that this would be only the fraction
of the Council assigned to his case. There were probably hundreds of
interviews going on at this moment, as thousands of applicants were
processed.

One member was a honeycomb of gelatinous tissue suspended on a
trellislike framework. The second was a mass of purple sponge. The third
was an undulating something confined within a tank: a water-breather,
assuming that liquid was water. Assuming that it breathed.

The speaker set in the wall of the tank came to life. This was evidently
the spokesman, if any were required. "We do not interview many with so
low a probability of admission as student," Tank said. "Why did you
persist?"

Why indeed? Well, he had nothing further to lose by forthrightness. "I
still want to enter the University. There is still a chance."

"Your examination results are hardly conducive," Tank said, and it was
amazing how much scorn could be infused into the tone of the mechanical
translation. "While your field exercises were fair, your written effort
was incompetent. You appear to be ignorant of all but the most primitive
and limited aspects of prosthodontistry. Why should you wish to
undertake training for which your capacity is plainly insufficient?"

"Most of the questions of the second examination struck me as relating
to basic information, rather than to individual potential," Dillingham
said woodenly. "If I had that information already, I would not stand in
need of the training I came here to learn."

"An intriguing attitude. We expect, nevertheless, a certain minimum
background. Otherwise our curriculum may be wastefully diluted."

For this Dillingham had no answer. Obviously the ranking specialists of
the galaxy should not be used for elementary instruction. He understood
the point--yet something in him would not capitulate. There had to be
more to this hearing than an automatic decision on the basis of tests
whose results could be distorted by participant co-operation (cheating)
on the one hand, and circumstantial denial of study-time on the other.
Why have an advisory board, if that were all?

"We are concerned with certain aspects of your field work," the
honeycomb creature said. He spoke by vibrating his tissues in the air,
but the voice emerged from his translator. "Why did you neglect
particular items?"

"Do you mean number seventeen? I was unfamiliar with the specimen and
therefore could not repair it competently."

"You refused to work on it merely because it was new to your
experience?" Again the towering scorn.

That did make it sound bad. "No. I would have done something if I had
had more evidence of its nature. But the specimen was not complete. I
felt that there was insufficient information presented to justify
attempted repairs."

"You could not have hurt an inert model very much. Surely you realized
that even an incorrect repair would have brought you a better score than
total failure?

Dillingham had not known that. "I assumed that these specimens stood in
lieu of actual patients. I gave them the same consideration I would have
given a living, feeling creature. Neglect of a cavity in the tooth of a
live patient might lead to the eventual loss of that tooth--but an
incorrect repair could have caused more serious damage. Sometimes it is
better not to interfere."

"Explain."

"When I visited the planet Electrolus I saw that the metallic
restorations in native teeth were indirectly interfering with
communication, which effect was disastrous to the well-being of the
individual. This impressed upon me how dangerous well-meaning ignorance
could be, even in so simple a matter as a filling."

"The chairman of the Dental League of planet Electrolus is a University
graduate. Are you accusing him of ignorance?"

Oh-oh. "Perhaps the problem had not come to his attention," Dillingham
said, trying to evade the trap.

"We will return to that matter at another time," the purple sponge said
grimly. Dillingham's reasoning hardly seemed to have impressed this
group.

"You likewise ignored item number thirty-six," Honeycomb said. "Was your
logic the same?"

"Yes. The jaw was so alien to my experience that I could not safely
assume that there was anything wrong with it, let alone attempt to fix
it. I suppose I was foolish not to fill the labial cavity, in view of
your scoring system, but that would have required an assumption I was
not equipped to make."

"How much time did you spend--deciding not to touch the cavity?"
Honeycomb inquired sweetly.

"Half an hour." Pointless to explain that he had gone over every surface
of #36 looking for some confirmation that its action was similar to that
of any of the jaws with which he was familiar. "If I may inquire
now--what was the correct treatment?"

"None. It was a healthy jaw."

Dillingham's breath caught. "You mean if I had filled that cavity--what
looked like a cavity, I mean--"

"You would have destroyed our model extragalactic patient's health."

"Then my decision on #36 helped my examination score!"

"No. Your decision was based on uncertainty, not on accurate diagnosis.
It threw your application into serious question."

Dillingham shut his mouth and waited for the next thrust.

"You did not follow instructions on #41," Honeycomb said. "Why?"

"I felt the instructions were mistaken. The placement of an MOD inlay
was unnecessary for the correction of the condition, and foolish in the
face of the peril the tooth was already in from gingivitis. Why perform
expensive and complicated reconstruction, when untreated gum disease
threatens to nullify it soon anyway?"

"Would that inlay have damaged the function of the tooth in anyway?"

"Yes, in the sense that no reconstruction can be expected to perform as
well as the original. But even if there were no difference, that
placement was functionally unnecessary. The expense and discomfort to
the patient must also be considered. The dentist owes it to his patient
to advise him of--"

"You are repetitive. Do you place your judgment before that of the
University?"

Trouble again. "I must act on my own best judgment, when I am charged
with the responsibility. Perhaps, with University training, I would have
been able to make a more informed decision."

"Kindly delete the pleading," Honeycomb said.

Something was certainly wrong somewhere. All his conjectures seemed to
go against the intent of this institution. Did its standards, as well as
its knowledge, differ so radically from his own? Could all his
professional and ethical instincts be wrong?

"Your performance on the written examination was extremely poor," Sponge
said. "Are you naturally stupid, or did you fail to apply yourself
properly?"

"I could have done better if I had studied more."

"You failed to prepare yourself?"

Worse and worse. "Yes."

"You were aware of the importance of the examination?"

"Yes."

"You had suitable review texts on hand?"

"Yes."

"Yet you did not bother to study them."

"I wanted to, but--" Then he remembered his promise to the oyster. He
could not give his reason for failing to study. If this trio picked up
any hint of that episode, it would not relent until everything was
exposed. After suffering this much interrogation, he retained no
illusions about the likely fate of young Oyster. No wonder the
grandfather had been anxious!

"What is your pretext for such neglect?"

"I can offer none."

The colour of the sponge darkened. "We are compelled to view with
disfavour an applicant who neither applies himself nor cares to excuse
his negligence. This is not the behaviour we expect in our students."

Dillingham said nothing. His position was hopeless--but he still could
not give up until they made his rejection final.

Tank resumed the dialogue. "You have an interesting record. It is even
alarming in some respects. You came originally from planet Earth--one of
the aborigine cultures. Why did you desert your tribe?"

They had unfortunate ways of putting things! "I was contacted by a
galactic voyager who required prosthodontic repair. I presumed he picked
my name out of the local directory." He described his initial experience
with the creatures he had dubbed, facetiously, the North Nebulites, or
Enens. Some of that early humour haunted him now.

"You operated on a totally unfamiliar jaw?" Tank demanded abruptly.

"Yes." Under duress, however. Should he remind them?

"Yet you refused to do similar work on a dummy jaw at this University,"
Honeycomb put in.

They were sharp! "I did what seemed necessary at the time."

"Don't your standards appear inconsistent, even to you?" Sponge
inquired.

Dillingham laughed, not happily. "Sometimes they do." How much deeper
could he bury his chances?

Tank's turn: "Why did you accompany the aliens to their world?"

"I did not have much choice, as I explained."

"So you did not come to space in search of superior prosthodontic
techniques?"

"No. It is possible that I might have done so, however, had I known of
their availability at the time."

"Yes, you have repeatedly expressed your recent interest," Tank said
dryly. "Yet you did not bother to study from the most authoritative
texts available on the subject, when you had both opportunity and
encouragement to do so."

Once again his promise to Oyster prevented him from replying. He was
coming to understand why his room-mates had shown so little desire to
spend time helping the supplicant. Such a gesture appeared, in
retrospect, to be a sure passport to failure.

Could he have passed--that is, brought his probability up to a
reasonable level--had he turned away that plea? Should he have
sacrificed that one creature, for the sake of the hundreds or the
thousands he might have helped later, with proper training? He had been
shortsighted.

But he knew he would do the same thing again, in similar circumstances.
He just didn't have the heart to be that practical. At the same time, he
could see why the business-like University would have little use for
such sentimentality.

"On planet Gleep," Tank said, surprising him by using his own ludicrous
term for the next world he had visited--though of course that was the
way the translator had to work--"you filled a single cavity with
twenty-four tons of fine gold alloy."

"Yes."

"Are you aware that gold, however plentiful it may be on Gleep, remains
an exceptionally valuable commodity in the galaxy? Why did you not
develop a less extravagant substitute?"

Dillingham tried to explain about the awkwardness of the situation,
about the pressure of working within the cavernous mouth of a
three-hundred foot sea creature, but it did seem that he had made a
mistake. He could have employed a specialized cobalt-chromium-molybdenum
alloy that would have been strong, hard, resilient and resistive to
corrosion, and that might well have been superior to gold in that
particular case. He had worried, for example, about the weight of such a
mass of gold, and this alternate, far lighter material, would have
alleviated that concern. It was also much cheaper stuff. He had not
thought carefully enough about such things at the time. He said so.

"Didn't you consult your Enen associates?"

"I couldn't. The English/Enen transcoder was broken." But that was no
excuse for not having had them develop the chrome-cobalt alloy earlier.
He had allowed his personal preference for the more familiar gold to
halt his quest for improvement.

"Yet you did communicate with them later, surmounting that problem
readily once the gold had been wasted."

Dillingham was becoming uncomfortably aware that this group had done its
homework. The members seemed to know everything about him. "I discovered
by accident that the English/Gleep and Gleep/Enen transcoders could be
used in concert. I had not realized that at the time we were casting the
filling."

"Because you were preoccupied with the immediate problem?"

"I think so."

"But not too preoccupied to notice decay in the neighbouring teeth."

"No." It did seem foolish now, to have been so concerned with future
dental problems, while wasting tons of valuable metal on the work in
progress. How did that jibe with his more recent concern for Oyster's
problem, to the exclusion of the much larger University picture? Was
there any coherent rationale to his actions, or was he continually
rationalizing to excuse his errors of judgment?

Was the seeming unfairness of this interview merely a way of proving
this to him?

But Tank wasn't finished. "You next embarked with a passing diplomat of
uncertain reputation who suggested a way to free you from your
commitment to Gleep."

"He was very kind." Dillingham did not regret his association with
Trach, the friendly dinosaur.

"He resembled one of the vicious predators of your planet's past--yet
you trusted your person aboard his ship?"

"I felt, in the face of galactic diversity of species, that it was
foolish to judge by appearances. One has to be prepared to extend trust,
if one wants to receive it."

"You believe that?" Honeycomb demanded instantly.

"I try to." It was so hard to defend himself against the concentrated
suspicion of the council.

"You do not seem to trust the common directives of this University,
however."

What answer could he make to that? They had him in another conflict,
since they chose to interpret it that way.

"Whereupon you proceeded to investigate another unfamiliar jaw," Tank
said. "Contrary to your expressed policy. Why?"

"Trach had befriended me, and I wanted to help him."

"So you put friendship above policy," Sponge said. "Convenient."

"And did you help him?" Tank again. It was hard to remember who said
what, since they were all so murderously sharp.

"Yes. I adapted a sonic instrument that enabled him to clean his teeth
efficiently."

"And what was your professional fee for this service?"

Dillingham reined his mounting temper. "Nothing. I was not thinking in
such terms."

"A moment ago you were quite concerned about costs."

"I was concerned about unnecessary expense to the patient. That strikes
me as another matter."

"And of course the prospective sale of your contract to planet Ra had no
bearing on your decision to help a friend," Honeycomb said with infinite
irony.

Sponge spoke before Dillingham could respond. "And the dinosaur told you
about the University of Dentistry?"

"Yes, among other things. We conversed quite a bit."

"And so you decided to attend, on hearsay evidence."

"That's not fair!"

"Is the colour of your face a sign of distress?"

He realized that they were deliberately needling him, so he shut up. Why
should he allow himself to get excited over a minor slur, after passing
over major ones? All he could do that way was prove he was unstable, and
therefore unfit.

"And did you seriously believe," Sponge persisted nastily, "that you had
any chance at all to be admitted as a student here?"

Again he had no answer.

"On planet Electrolus you provoked a war by careless advice," Honeycomb
said. "Whereupon you conspired to be exiled--to this University. What
kind of reception did you anticipate here, after such machinations?"

So that was it! What use to explain that he had not schemed, that Trach
had cleverly found a solution to the Electrolus political problem that
satisfied all parties? This trio would only twist that into further
condemnation.

"I made mistakes on that planet, as I did elsewhere," he said at last.
"I hoped to learn to avoid such errors in the future by enrolling in a
corrective course of instruction. It was ignorance, not devious intent,
that betrayed me. I still think this University has much to offer me."

"The question before us," Tank said portentously, "is what you have to
offer the University. Have you any further statements you fancy might
influence our decision?"

"I gather from your choice of expression that it has already been made.
In that case I won't waste any more of your time. I am ready for it."

"We find you unsuitable for enrollment at this University as a student,"
Tank said. "Please depart by the opposite door." So as not to obstruct
the incoming interviewees. Very neat. Dillingham stood up wearily.
"Thank you for your consideration," he said formally, keeping the irony
out of his tone. He walked to the indicated exit.

"One moment, ex-applicant," Honeycomb said. "What are your present
plans?"

Dillingham wondered why the creature bothered to ask. "I suppose I'll
return to practice wherever I'm needed--or wanted," he said. "I may not
be the finest dentist available, or even adequate by your standards--but
I love my profession, and there is much I can still do." But why was it
that the thought of returning to Earth, that he was free to do now and
where he was adequate, no longer appealed? Had the wonders he had
glimpsed here spoiled him for the backwoods existence? "I would have
preferred to add the University training to my experience, but there is
no reason to give up what I already have just because my dream has been
denied." He walked away from them.

The hall did not lead to the familiar elevators. Instead,
absent-mindedly following the wrist-band glow, he found himself in an
elegant apartment. He turned, embarrassed to have blundered into the
wrong area, but a voice stopped him.

"Please be seated, Earthman."

It was the old Oyster he had treated two days before. Dillingham was not
adept at telling aliens of identical species apart, but he could not
mistake this one. "What are you doing here?"

"We all have to dwell somewhere." Oyster indicated a couch adaptable to
a wide variety of forms. "Make yourself comfortable. I have thoughts to
exchange with you."

Dillingham marvelled at the change in the manner of his erstwhile
patient. This was no longer a suffering, unreasonable indigent. But his
presence remained incongruous.

"Surely it occurred to you, Doctor, that there are only three groups
upon this planet? The applicants, the students, and the University
personnel. Which of these do you suppose should lack proper dental care?
Which should lack the typical University identification?"

"You--" Dillingham stared at him, suddenly making connections. "You have
no band--but the elevator worked for you! You're an employee! It was a
put-up job!"

"It was part of your examination."

"I failed."

"What gave you that impression?"

Brother! "The Admissions Advisory Council found me unfit to enter this
University."

"I find that hard to believe, Doctor."

Dillingham faced him angrily, not appreciating this business at all. "I
don't know why you or the University were so eager to interfere with my
application, but you succeeded nicely. They rejected me."

"Perhaps we should verify this," Oyster said, unperturbed.

He spoke into the translator: "Summon Dr. Dillingham's advisory group."

They came: the Sponge, the Honeycomb and the Tank, riding low conveyors.
"Sir," they said respectfully.

"What was your decision with regard to this man's application?"

Tank replied. "We found this humanoid to be unsuitable for enrollment at
this University as a student."

Dillingham nodded. Whatever internecine politics were going on here, at
least that point was clear.

"Did you discover this applicant to be deficient in integrity?" Oyster
inquired softly. It was the gentle tone of complete authority.

"No sir," Tank said.

"Professional ethics?"

"No sir."

"Professional caution?"

"No sir."

"Humility?"

"No sir."

Temper control?"

"No sir."

"Compassion? Courage? Equilibrium?"

"That is for you to say, sir."

Oyster glanced at Dillingham. "So it would seem. What, then, gentlemen,
did you find the applicant suitable for?"

"Administration, sir."

"Indeed. Dismissed, gentlemen."

"Yes, Director." The three departed hastily.

Dillingham started. "Yes, who?"

"There is, you see, a qualitative distinction between the potential
manual trainee and the potential administrator," Oyster said. "Your
room-mates were evaluated as students--and they certainly have things to
learn. Oh, technically they are proficient enough--quite skilled, in
fact, though none had the opportunity to exhibit the depth of competence
manifested in adversity that you did. But in attitude--well, there will
be considerable improvement there, or they will hardly graduate from
this school. I daresay you know what I mean."

So the cheating had been noted! "But--"

"We are equipped to inculcate manual dexterity and technical
comprehension. Of course the techniques tested in the Admissions
Examination are primitive; none are employed in advanced restoration.
Our interrogatory schedule is principally advisory, to enable us to
programme for individual needs.

"Character, on the other hand, is far more difficult to train--or to
assess accurately in a fixed situation. It is far more reliable if it
comes naturally, which is one reason we don't always draw from
graduates, or even promising students. We are quite quick to investigate
applicants possessing the personality traits we require, and this had
nothing to do with planet or species. A promising candidate may emerge
from any culture, even the most backward, and is guaranteed from none.
No statistical survey is reliable in pinpointing the individual we want.
In exceptional cases it becomes a personal matter, a non-objective
thing. Do you follow me?"

Dillingham's mind was whirling. "It sounds almost as though you want me
to--"

To undertake training at University expense leading to the eventual
assumption of my own position: Director of the School of
Prosthodontics."

Dillingham was speechless.

"I am anticipating a promotion, you see," Oyster confided. "The vacancy
I leave is my responsibility. I would not suffer a successor to whom I
would not trust the care of my own teeth."

"But I couldn't possibly--I haven't the--"

"Have no concern. You adapted beautifully when thrust from your
protected environment into galactic society, and this will be no more
difficult. The University of Administration has a comprehensive
programme that will guarantee your competence for the position, and of
course you will serve as my assistant for several years until you get
the hang of it. We are not rushed. You will not be subjected to the
ordeal unprepared; that unpleasantness is over."

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 nave. 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.

CHAPTER SIX
-----------

"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."

Miss Tarantula emitted a hiss reminiscent of a matron's sniff. "Robots
never sleep anyway."

"We haven't eaten a thing, we were so eager for your Lordship to come."

"Robots don't eat, either," she pointed out.

The green robot turned about, lifted one metal foot, and delivered a
clanging kick to the pedestal of the transcoder. There was a pained
screech and a series of metallic burps. Then: "We have watched no
television in two days."

"That's more like it," Miss Tarantula said, permitting herself to be
mollified. "A robot who loses its appetite for television is becoming
almost sentient, and that's a sure sign of distress. Better have the
spools updated on that contraption before someone has a
misunderstanding."

With a secretary like that, Dillingham realized, an administrator could
hardly err. He was glad that the three of them carried University
three-language transcoders for private dialogue. There was a subtle
distinction in principle between the small transcoders and the large
translators; he didn't understand the technical part, but knew that the
'coder differed from the 'lator as a motorcycle differed from a jet
plane. But the 'coders were portable and self-contained and cheap, so
remained in common use on backward planets. Insert the proper spools and
hold an adequate conversation. Usually.

"What seems to be the difficulty?" Oyster inquired in an offshell
manner. Dillingham was reminded of one of the die-turns of effective
administration: Never ask a question of a client without first knowing
most of the answer.

The little robot began volubly defining the problem. Dillingham's
attention wandered, for Miss Tarantula's summary had been far more
succinct. How, he wondered, did robots reproduce? Were there male and
female mechanicals, and did they marry? Were there procreative taboos,
metal pornography, broken iron hearts?

"Director," Miss Tarantula said on their private link-up.

Oyster angled his transcoder intake--he wore the device inside his huge
shell--unobtrusively at her, not interrupting the green robot's
narrative. Dillingham did likewise.

"There is a priority call from the University." She had a trans-star
receiver somewhere on her complicated person. "A wildcat student
demonstration has infiltrated your wing. They're raiding the files--"

Oyster's eye-stalks turned bright green. "Boiling oceans!" he swore.

The robot broke off. "Did you say "gritty oil", Director?" The vibration
of its headpiece showed it was upset.

"Take over, Director!" Oyster snapped at Dillingham. "I'm summoning an
emergency ship back. My files!" And he ran across the landing field
towards the communications station as rapidly as his spindly legs would
carry him. Miss Tarantula followed.

"Did he say "gritty oil"?" the green robot demanded insistently. There
was a faint odour of burning insulation about it. "He may be a Very
Important Sentient, but language like that--"

"Of course not," Dillingham said quickly. "He would never stoop to such
uncouthness. It must be a scratch on the transcoder spool." But he
suspected that the transcoder had correctly rendered the expletive. His
own unit had not been programmed for gutter talk; otherwise his own ears
might be burning. Oyster had certainly been furious.

"Oh," the robot said, disgruntled. "Well, as I was saying--er, you are
going to solve the problem, even if he renigs?"

"Naturally." Dillingham hoped the quiver in his voice sounded like
confidence. "The Director did not renig; he merely left the matter in my
hands. The University always honours its commitments." But privately he
preferred the robot's term. He should have known he'd find himself in
over his ears without a facemask. Somehow it always happened that way.
"I suppose I'd better see the patient now."

Frantically eager--who claimed robots had no emotions!--the official
conducted him to the site of the excavations. They rode in an antique
floater past high mounds of broken rock. There were plants in this
world, but the few he saw had a metallic look. Hardly a place for a
human being to reside, though the air was breathable and the temperature
and gravity comfortable.

The vehicle stopped, settling to the ground with a flatulent sigh. "I
dare go no further," the green robot said, and indeed his headpiece was
rattling in a fear-feedback. "The Jann is in the next pit. Signal when
you're finished, and I will pick you up again. If it's safe."

As Dillingham stepped down with his bag of equipment, the robot spun the
cart around, goosed the motor, and floated swiftly back the way they had
come--taking the transcoder and signal with it.

Stranded again! What kind of robot could it be, that even other robots
feared so greatly? And if it were that dangerous, why hadn't they simply
destroyed it? Oh--it was reputed to be invulnerable.

He walked to the pit and peered down.

A tremendous robot lay there, half buried in rubble. Judging from the
proportion exposed, it had to be twelve feet long entire. Its armour was
polished to a glass-like finish despite the centuries of weathering and
abrasion. It was an awesome sight, and the mighty torso seemed to pulse
with power. A cruel, thin keening smote his ears, and he knew it at once
for the robotic note of pain. He had not learned much about robots, but
he was sensitive to distress in anything, flesh, metal or other. Yes,
this creature was alive--and suffering. That was all he really needed to
know.

The head section was roughly cubical and two feet on a side. A drawer in
the region that would have been the face of a man was partially out,
half-full of sand, and within this something glowed. Robots did not
ordinarily have mouths, but some models did have orifices for the
intromission and processing of assorted substances. The gears that
ground down hard samples could be considered as teeth.

Now that he was in the physical presence of the patient, the information
in one of the University cram-courses began to come to the surface. He
was, he realized, familiar with the basic procedures for repairing such
equipment. But the specific type he found here was particularly awkward,
and if he operated on it he risked making some serious mistake. This was
a most sophisticated robot, and it had been listed as extinct.

But if its innards followed the principles of contemporary robots, its
"teeth" might serve a double purpose: They would have an extremely hard
exterior surface for manual crushing action, together with intricate
internal circuitry for communications and processing of data. As with
the Electrolytes. That meant that a malfunction in a tooth could distort
far more than the mechanical operation of the mouth. A short-circuit
could interfere with the functions of the brain itself...

Dillingham vacuumed out the sand and studied the configuration. One
tooth glowed hotly. The pain-hum seemed to emanate from it. A quick
check with his precise University instruments verified the
short-circuit.

"All right, Jann--I believe I have diagnosed the condition," he said,
speaking rhetorically while he set up the necessary paraphernalia. He
doubted that the giant robot could hear or comprehend anything in its
present state. "Unfortunately, I am not equipped to operate on the unit
itself, and I don't have a replacement. I'll have to relieve the pain by
bridging around the tooth--in essence, shorting out the short. This is
crude, and will render the tooth inoperative, but unless it is a
critical unit the rest of your system should be able to function. You'll
have to seek help at a thoroughly equipped robotoid clinic to have that
tooth replaced, however, and I wouldn't delay if I were you. My jury-rig
won't be any too stable, and you don't want a relapse."

Yet it would have been simple for a native dentist to bridge the tooth.
Why hadn't that been done? What were they so afraid of, to allow an
ancient cousin to suffer unnecessarily like this? Surely a single Jann,
the only survivor of its kind, could not imperil a planet, even if it
should have a mind to. And if it were that dangerous, the fact that a
University dentist had repaired it would not dispose it any more kindly
towards the errant locals.

Too bad he hadn't had a chance to review the history of the Jann
uprising. Maybe some of these annoying inconsistencies would have been
explained. But with Oyster running off so suddenly... well, this
creature was in pain and needed help.

He was ready. He applied the bridge and soldered the terminals. The job
itself was nothing; the skill had been required for the electronic
preparations, the verification of tolerances, the location of circuits.
It would have been a mistake to remove the tooth, for it was in series
with the others so that the extraction could have been fatal for the
patient. And many robots, his cram-course said, were programmed to
self-destruct when killed. They were living bombs.

The keening faded. The bypassed tooth began to cool. The Jann moved one
glittering arm a few inches. "Nnnnn," it said, the sound emerging from a
grill in its forehead. A bulb set in the side of its head began to glow
softly. An eye?

Relieved but apprehensive now that the job had been done, Dillingham
stood back and awaited developments. He wanted to be sure his field
surgery had been effective, as a matter of professional pride and
compassion. Should the patient seem to be worse, he would have to undo
his handiwork and try again.

The earth and rock around the Jann's nether portions cracked and bucked.
A sleek massive foot ripped out of the ground, spraying fragments of
rock in a semi-circle. The Jann hefted its body, moving its shining
limbs with ponderous splendour. It was a magnificent hunk of machinery.

"Nnonne," it said on hands and knees, raising its head to cover
Dillingham with a small antenna.

Was that a groan or a comment? Of course it would speak a strange
language, assuming it used vocal communication at all, and his little
Oyster/Tarantula/English transcoder would be useless without the
appropriate spool. He would have to judge by the robot's actions and
manner.

The Jann stood, towering monstrously above him. "None but I," it said,
the volume deafening, the tones reverberating as though emanating from
the lower register of a mighty organ.

None but I? That sounded perilously like English, and it hadn't come
through the transcoder.

"Are you--do you--?" Dillingham faltered. Even if this Jann embodied a
full translator, it could hardly have a setting for English. It had been
buried for tens of centuries!

The Jann peered down at him with prismatic lenses that opened from a
formerly blank area of its head. Sunlight glinted from its stainless
torso and wisps of steam rose from its fingertips, giving it the aspect
of a rainbow in fog. "NONE BUT I," it boomed, "SHALL DO THEE DIE!"

Oh-oh.

"There seems to be a misunderhension," Dillingham said, backing away as
surreptitiously as he could manage. "I mean misapprestanding..." He
whistled ineffectively. "I wasn't--I didn't--I mean, I fixed your tooth,
or at least--" He tripped over a rock and sat down abruptly.

The Jann stepped towards him, and the earth shuddered. "Thou didst
release me from mine bondage," it said, moderating its volume but none
of its timbre. "Thou didst bypass the short."

Dillingham pushed himself back without getting up. "Yes. Yes! That's the
idea."

The Jann reached forth a scintillating arm and pointed a finger oddly
like a cannon at Dillingham's head. "Listen, mortal, for I have somewhat
to impart to thee."

Dillingham froze where he was. He did not like the giant's attitude--in
fact, he was terrified--but there was no point in acting precipitously.

"In the days and years of strife between the tribes of the Jann and the
minor ilk," it said, "it was my misfortune to bite down carelessly on a
button-grenade and so befoul a circuit, nor could I recover the use of
my body while that geis was upon me, though my mind was sound except for
the pain. And so when I was buried thereafter by refuse my companions
located me not, for it was wartime and there was much electrostatic
interference and other distraction, and they thought me defunct. I
perceived all manner of newsbands and converse in my area, as was my
wont, but could not respond, and great was my suffering. In that pit I
abode an thousand years, during which I said in my heart, "Whoso shall
release me, him will I enrich for ever and ever." But the full
millennium went by, and when no one set me free I entered upon the
second thousand saying, "Whoso shall release me, for him will I fulfil
three wishes." Yet no one set me free. Thereupon I waxed wroth with
exceeding wrath and said to myself, "Whoso shall release me from this
time forth, no one but I shall do him die." And now, as thou hast
released me, needs must I honour that oath."

It was obvious to Dillingham that he faced a deranged robot. That
bypassed tooth must have contained an important sanity circuit. But it
was too late to undo the damage; the Jann would hardly let him near that
tooth again. It would, in fact, kill him first.

But the story sounded familiar. The Jann, imprisoned--that was it? The
spirit in the bottle, sworn to kill whoever released him. A fisherman
had brought up the bottle in his net and unwittingly uncorked it...

Dillingham understood, now, why the locals had been so chary of this
patient. Who wanted to gamble on the particular oath in force at the
moment of release?

How had that fisherman got out of it? There had been a gimmick--

The Jann stumbled, and Dillingham lunged away from it. "My powerpack is
almost depleted!" the robot lamented. "Four thousand years of that
accursed short-circuit, yet I preserved my life-power until this moment!
Had it not been my caution-synapse you bridged out, I would have
realized the danger before expending power recklessly in breaking out of
the rock and defining my motive. I can hardly move!"

Good news! Dillingham scrambled up the side of the pit and ran.

"O mortal!" the great voice called after him. "Wouldst desert me in this
sad state, and my power insufficient to free myself from this ugly
hole?"

Dillingham cursed himself for his stupidity, but was oddly moved by the
plea. He stopped. "Will you change your mind about killing me, if I help
you again?"

"Mortal, I can not gainsay an oath of twenty centuries. None but I shall
do thee die."

"Then why should I help you?"

But the Jann, having exhausted its small remaining charge, could only
repeat in fading resonance, "None but I..."

Against his better judgment, Dillingham returned to the pit and peeked
down. The Jann lay sprawled at the bottom, its head-bulb dim.

He sighed with relief and began the long hike back to the spaceport. He
had, at any rate, performed his mission. He had cured the toothache. His
only concern now was to get back to the University.

He walked for hours. His bag grew heavy, but he refused to discard it.
His feet developed blisters and his tongue became parched, but there
seemed to be nothing he could drink here. The lone stream he passed
turned out to be dilute machine oil--and gritty. He had not realized how
far they had come in the floater.

Despite his discomfort his mind kept circling back to the shining Jann.
What a contrast--that marvellous ancient machine, compared to the
cowardly little green robot! The operation had been successful, he
thought wryly, but the patient died. The image of it tormented
him--lying there, dying there, for lack of power. Had that been his
service to it? Death in lieu of pain? "O mortal," it had pleaded,
"wouldst desert me...?'Yet he had left it.

But it wanted to kill him! He was lucky to have escaped with his life!
He would be a fool ever to get near the ungrateful machine again!

That fading appeal nagged at him, even so.

Finally he reached the spaceport and staggered into the ALIEN LIFE
SYSTEMS SUPPORT section. It was cramped and hot, but had the supplies he
needed for the moment. He gulped water, then carefully bandaged his
smarting feet. His job here was done.

Except for that last plea...

"The Jann," he inquired, not idly. "What kind of moral standards did
they have? Did they ever make oaths, for instance, and keep them?"

The station's interior translator cleared its dusty speakers and
answered him: "The ancient Jann robots were compulsively moral, and were
mighty oath makers. Their circuitry was so constructed that they were
unable ever to reverse an oath once made, or to allow anything short of
total incapacity to hinder its performance."

So that was what he was up against!

But to let that noble creature simply lie there, knowing that not one of
the frightened natives would help it...

"What power source did the Jann employ?"

"They normally used a unique powerpack whose secret expired with them,"
the translator said. "A tiny unit would sustain them in full activity
for many centuries. But in an emergency they were able to draw on almost
any available source.

Except sunlight, evidently, or radio waves, or the heat of the ground.
Though perhaps such things had helped to recharge the Jann's unit, so
that it could last forty centuries in spite of the short-circuit. "How
long before the next liner to the University of Dentistry, or that
vicinity?"

"Eighteen hours, approximately."

Time enough. "Summon an individual floater for me, stocked with a spare
charge-cell. I'll drive it myself." He knew that his status as a
representative from a Galactic University guaranteed his interplanetary
credit. He could order virtually anything and have it delivered without
challenge. If his charges became excessive, the University would settle
without a whimper--and call him to account in private. That way its
image was protected.

The floater was waiting outside as he eased himself along on his
blisters. He mounted and set it in motion. The controls were standard.

In minutes he was back at the pit. The Jann lay where he had left it,
spread unceremoniously face down. Its light glowed a trifle more
brightly, however, suggesting that its cell had recharged a little. It
might eventually have recovered enough power to crawl out by
itself--were it not for the hazard of that temporary bridge he had
installed.

Dillingham lifted out the charge-cell and set it beside the robot. "I
have brought you a temporary power supply," he said. "This is not to
imply that I approve of your attitude, one bit--but it is against my
principles to let any creature suffer or die if I am able to prevent it.
So here is your reprieve--and by the time you hook it up and assemble
it, I'll be gone. You'll have to find your own permanent supply, as I
suspect this will sustain you only a few hours. Good luck."

The Jann's shining hand dragged towards the cell, and Dillingham knew it
would make use of that power somehow. He jumped into the floater and
took off. "None but I..." he heard as he left.

What kind of a fool was he? This Jann was murder! But he knew the
answer: he was the same kind of fool who had thrown away his study-time
in order to help a disreputable Oyster who claimed to be in pain. That
had worked out well for him--but he could expect no similar reprieve
this time. He was dealing with an inflexible machine, not a subjective
animate, this time. He'd better be off the planet before the Jann got
fully organized.

"None but I..."

Dillingham jumped, almost overturning the floater. He was a mile from
the pit and travelling at high speed, yet it had sounded as though the
Jann were near at hand. He looked around nervously,

"None but I shall do thee die." It was the floater's transcoder!

He relaxed. Naturally the Jann would be able to tap into such a device.
Its body was one big electronic apparatus.

"I see you're back in form already," he replied.

"And my thanks to thee, mortal. For the second time thou hast preserved
me from a fate forse than destruction. Thy primitive power cell is
insufficient to sustain levitation, but I am now able to walk to a
better supply. Then I shall seek thee out, for none but I shall--"

"I understand." Levitation? The Jann was advanced; he had never heard of
this ability in a robot, before. That probably meant the quaint-talking
demon could catch him in the floater, or anywhere else on the planet. He
suddenly felt less secure. In fact, something very like a chilly
perspiration was showing up. "How long will it take you to get better
power?"

"There is a Jann unit in serviceable condition buried within ten miles
of me. Twenty minutes will suffice, counting the time required to drill
down to it. Then shall I be fully mobile again."

Twenty minutes! His liner to the University wouldn't leave for many
hours.

The spaceport was coming into sight, but this did not cheer him. Where
could he hide from a virtually omniscent killer robot?

"Jann, are you sure you have to kill me?"

"Mortal, I must do thee die, for so I have sworn."

"There's no leeway, no loophole--?"

"Only if thou shouldst die before I get to thee."

"You couldn't just write this one off as a bad debt?"

"None but I--"

"I remember the expression." But had there been a note of regret in it
this time? "I just thought the circumstances might--"

"Shall do thee die." No--the tone was final.

Dillingham tried once more. "Jann, your oath to kill your benefactor was
for the first time you were saved. Don't you owe me another oath for the
second time?"

"I had not thought of it, mortal. I shall give thee the prior oath: to
fulfill three wishes. That should acquit me honourably."

"Excellent. My first wish is to cancel the other oath."

There was something like a chuckle. "Not so fast, mortal. Thou canst not
gainsay a Jann oath in such fashion. Only after the first has been
acquitted may thou invoke the next."

"But how can I invoke--I mean, revoke it after I'm dead?"

"Mortal, I did not write the Code of the Jann; I only obey it. First
oath first."

So much for that. Dillingham drew up to the centre, paused a moment to
collect his morale, and hurried to the ticket counter. "Book me aboard
the first ship out of here. Anywhere. Is there one within fifteen
minutes?"

The blue robot with the rubber-stamp digits looked startled. "Is
something the matter, Director?"

"Your Jann wants to kill me."

"That's too bad. We were afraid of something like that. Do you mind
removing yourself from the building before the Jann catches up to you?
We're not insured against acts of war."

"Acts of war!"

"No peace treaty was ever concluded with the Jann, since we thought them
extinct. So we're still at war. If it destroyed this station to get at
you--"

Dillingham suspected it was useless to shout at a machine, but was
tempted. "Did it occur to you that the moment the Jann dispatches me, it
will be free to resume full-scale hostilities against you? Now if you'd
like me to go out to meet it--"

"Oh, no--it would be better if you lived for a while, at least until we
can prepare our defences."

"Just put me on a ship in time and you'll have no problem," Dillingham
said dryly. Who would have expected the quiet profession of
prosthodontics to lead to this?

He found himself aboard a scow lurching off to Hazard, a planet devoted
largely to winter sports for woolly mammoths. He didn't care; at least
it had an up-to-date spaceport, and it would be a simple matter to
re-embark for the University. Once home, he could check out ways to
nullify the Jann, should it actually follow him into space.

But why wait? "Creature-to-creature call to Director Oyster, School of
Prosthodontics, University of Dentistry," he said to the translator, and
identified himself for the charges. That was one thing about the
translators: they all seemed to know all languages, even his. Probably
there was a complex network, so that--

"Good to hear you," Oyster said. Even though this was a was a
translation of a voice many light-years distant, the typical clammish
nuances came through clearly. "How soon will you be back?"

"Not soon enough, I'm afraid. You see, I'm headed in the wrong
direction, and--"

A rough, somewhat nasal voice cut in. "We demand grades based on
longevity-in-programme, and tuition reduction for difficult courses.
Furthermore--"

What was this--a crossed connection?

"Ridiculous!" Oyster exclaimed. "I'll make you a counteroffer:
longevity-in-programme based on your grades, and cessation of tuition
after graduation. By that token you will soon wash out, Anteater, and
the question of your graduation will be, if I may say so, academic."

Anteater! Dillingham recognized that voice now. His one-time room-mate
had cheated on the University entrance exam, though he had hardly needed
to. Now, evidently, he was leading a student revolt.

"Are you still there, Assistant?" Oyster inquired. "They have us locked
up in an examination room, and we need reinforcements."

"Locked up! All your staff, too?"

"All that happened to be on the premises when they broke through. I'm
here with Purplesplotch, K-9, Honeycomb and Lightbulb. I'm not sure you
know them."

"I remember Honeycomb. He was one of my AAC interviewers. That was an
unforgettable--"

"We demand a full-credit sabbatical term every two years," Anteater
said.

"Sabbaticals! For students?" Oyster shouted back. "Our budget doesn't
allow that for our instructors! If you don't disperse this instant,
though, I guarantee you'll get a term at full-labour in the University
clink! Did you fix the Jann?"

Dillingham realized with a start that the last sentence was for him, and
marvelled at Oyster's aplomb in this cross-fire dialogue. "That's what I
was calling about. The Jann is--"

"Hey! He's making an outside call!" another student cried. "The no-good
sneak!"

"Now wait a minute," Dillingham began.

"That's Earthman!" Anteater said. "I know him. A turncoat. Schemed his
way into Administration after he'd flunked the entrance exam. Blank him
off!"

"Clam chowder!" Oyster swore before Dillingham could reply. A red light
flickered on the translator chassis to signify the transmission of an
obscenity. "Doctor, get back here as fast as you--"

"Oooo, what you said, Director!" Anteater chided gleefully. "Did you
hear that, fellows? He said "poisoned termites"!"

"Melted ice-cream!" another student echoed wickedly. "Wash his mouth
out!" Then the blah-blah of an interference signal over-rode the
transmission and Dillingham could make out no more. He was on his own
again.

He hardly had time to disconnect before the translator spoke again.
"None but I..."

Oh, no!

"So you can tap into a spaceborne network too, Jann. You're pretty good
for one who's been buried four thousand years."

"I have been keeping up with developments, primitive as they are,
despite mine incapacity."

"That's how you knew my language, without a translator? You rifled my
transcoder electronically before I ever bridged your tooth?"

"Even so."

"Then why don't you employ modern slang, instead of--"

"That would be out of character, mortal."

"It seems out of character to me to kill the one who tried to help you.
Twice. But I'm not a Jann, so maybe I don't properly appreciate your
mores."

"I shall await thee on Hazard."

Dillingham felt distinctly uncomfortable. Even his feeble irony was
wasted on the metal man, and now--"You caught a faster ship?"

"I am a faster ship."

Worse and worse. The long-range problem had become short-range again. He
had assumed that "levitation" was similar to the action of a floater,
strictly dependent on adequate ambient gas--i.e., air. He had
underestimated the robot.

He was tempted to ask the translator for advice, but realized that he
could no longer trust it. Evidently his prior call had enabled the Jann
to trace him, and now the robot would overhear anything he said. At
worst, it might arrange to feed him false information, leading to the
early fulfilment of the oath. He could not even converse with any
crewman or other passengers, since translation would be necessary. He
was boxed in, and would have to get out of it by himself. As usual.

But how? The Jann could track him whenever he used a translator or other
communicator, and would be laying in wait for the ship at Hazard.

"With abilities such as yours, how did your kind lose the war?"
Dillingham inquired. Since he could not hide from the giant, he might as
well talk. There was always the chance that something useful would turn
up, that would enable him to circumvent the murder-oath. A straw--but he
had little else.

"I have pondered that very question for some centuries," the Jann
admitted. "Unfortunately, we of the mineral kingdom are not original
thinkers, so I was unable to come to any certain conclusion."

Not original thinkers. That figured. A machine typically performed as
instructed and had no imagination. But that realization only posed more
problems. How could an entire machine culture evolve, without animate
intervention? If one of its highest representatives, the Jann, could
neither win a war nor comprehend why it had lost, what was the source of
its civilization?

On the other hand, was his own planet dominated by original thinkers?
"Were you able to come to any uncertain conclusions?" Dillingham asked.

"I conjectured that we Jann, being advanced and peaceful, did not
properly appreciate the capacity for an inferior species to do mischief.
We believed that all robots shared our standards. So when we were
attacked--"

"I had understood that you were the aggressors."

"No, mortal. We governed the planet, and all other planets in a range of
an hundred light-years, as we had for many millenia. We had no need of
violence. It was our lesser mechanicals--smaller robots we built as
domestics and functionaries--who rebelled. Before we fully appreciated
the extent of their dastardy, we were undone."

That was a different story from the one the contemporary robots told,
yet it could be the truth. Winners always disparaged the motives and
characters of the losers. The Jann did appear to be a superior species,
and it was more likely that the Jann could build lesser robots than that
the lesser ones could build Jann. Except--

"If you built the other robots, who built you?"

"We evolved, mortal. Natural selection--"

"Surely you don't, well, breed? How can you evolve the way animals do?"

"I never understood how the animals perform. No tools, no charts, no
preparations. Just a brief physical contact, less even than an exchange
of lubrication. Very untechnological. Quite sloppy, in fact, I once
watched--"

"Never mind that. What about your own romantic life?"

There was a pause. When the Jann spoke again, its voice was subdued.
"How well do I remember my Janni, her limbs of shining platinum, her
teeth of iridium... and the little one we built together, pride of my
nut and screw. My chart and hers, distinct but compatible. We knew the
cross between the two designs would generate a superior being, a machine
like none before. But then the rebellion erupted, and Janni was melted
in an atomic furnace, and our son dismantled for parts for the usurper,
whilst I lay helpless in the pit..."

Dillingham did not know what to say. This Jann, far from being a
mindless monster, was as meaningful a personality as any true sentient.
Were it not for that oath--

Static burst from the translator. What now?

It subsided after a few seconds. "Ah, mortal, why did I not heed thy
warning!" the Jann exclaimed.

"Because your caution-circuit has been bridged out."

"Vicious circle. The cold of space has fractured that bridge, and in a
moment my tooth--"

More static. Dillingham realized that fate had given him yet another
chance. The Jann would be immobilized again, this time in deep space.

"Farewell, mor--" but static cut off the rest. The cold had completed
its work, and the intermittent failure had become permanent.

Dillingham sat for half an hour in silence, listening to the continuing
static. He knew that every minute of it meant a minute of terrible
suffering for the Jann. Unless something were done, the robot would
drift through space forever, in an agony it hardly deserved.

Yet his own life was sweet, and he had a promising future. Should he
throw it all away... again?

"Clam chowder!" he said at last. Then he put through a call to the
spaceport at Hazard. "A derelict is moving in your direction, and should
pass within the range of your landing net in the next few hours.
Intercept it and perform the following repair." He went on to describe
the tooth-bridging operation. "And locate an appropriate replacement for
the affected tooth, if you can, because there is an important circuit
involved."

"It shall be done, Director," the official said. "Where do you want the
ship delivered after it has been repaired?"

"It isn't a ship, exactly. It's a self-propelled robot. Let it go when
you're through and charge the service to my University account."

"Very well, Director." The official signed off.

Once a fool, always a fool, he thought. He simply could not preserve his
own life at the cost of eternal torture for another creature, even an
inanimate one. He wanted to live, certainly--but the end did not justify
the means. That was hardly an attitude, he thought ruefully, that a
creature like Anteater would comprehend. Dillingham hardly comprehended
it himself. Probably Anteater would outlive him...

At any rate, he had a reprieve of a few hours, unless they repaired the
Jann before Dillingham reached Hazard himself. He would have to gamble
on getting in and out before the pursuit resumed. He still could not use
the translator, because he knew the Jann was listening in even though it
could not reply or act. Better to swear off such devices entirely, so
that at least he would be hidden.

But he was still bottled in. He could not get off the ship before it
landed, and once it did land...

Then he remembered the lifeboats. How could he call the Jann an
unoriginal thinker, when that escape had almost bypassed his own mental
circuitry!

Dillingham drew out some thin paperlike dental illustrations and began
to draw on their blank backs. He took some pains, erasing frequently and
redrawing. He wound up with several complex configurations.

He left the compartment silently, using the emergency manual door
control. He searched out the Captain's cabin. He used his knuckles to
knock on the door, avoiding the electronic signaller. Then he stepped
back so as to be out of range of the viewscreen pick-up. He could,
however, still see the screen's projected image.

The screen came on and the Captain's whiskery proboscis showed. There
were sounds indicating a question. Since the hall translator had no
object to fix on, it had to feed through the Captain's native speech.
Translators could perform moderate linguistic miracles, but were not
equipped to play guessing games among the several million discreet
galactic languages.

Dillingham did not answer. Any word he said would be relayed straight to
the Jann as well as to the Captain.

After a moment the screen snapped off. False alarm, the Captain had
evidently decided. Such things happened on old ships. Then Dillingham
went up to tap on the door again.

After several repeats, the frustrated Captain opened the door personally
to investigate the nature of the malfunction. Dillingham poked one of
his ornate symbol-signs around the corner.

The officer paused, making no sound. Here was the test: would he
understand? He commanded a broken-down vessel and was largely over the
hill himself--but that should mean the Captain had had over a century of
experience. He must have knocked about the galaxy considerably. Such a
creature should know the galactic graphics shorthand.

The GG shorthand was a system of symbols based on meaning, not phonics.
Just as the Chinese written language of Earth could be used by those
speaking a number of dissimilar dialects and languages, because each
figure stood for a specific concept and not a spoken word--in just this
way the galactic shorthand was a universal written language. Any
creature of the galaxy who could see at all--and most could--was able to
learn to read the symbols. The basic vocabulary was designed to apply
even to languages that did not employ verbs, nouns and other familiar
parts of speech. (In fact, the majority did not; Dillingham's own family
of languages represented an archaic fluke, as far as the galaxy was
concerned.)

But not every individual bothered to master the shorthand. In fact, few
other than travelling scholars retained proficiency in it, though every
University had a mandatory freshman course in it. Translators and
transcoders were ubiquitous, so the written art languished--particularly
since there were also translators for written material that were just as
efficient as the verbal ones.

Dillingham was gambling that the Captain had had to poke into so many
backward planets that the shorthand would have been a useful and
necessary tool. Dillingham was also gambling that his own just-completed
freshman course had made him proficient enough to be intelligible. He
had been instructed by drugs and suggestion, and really could not be
certain how much or how well he knew.

The Captain angled one eye-stalk around the comer. Below this floating
eyeball was a tentacle looped around an old-fashioned short-range
blaster--the type of weapon useful for wiping out opposition without
puncturing any vital pipes. The charge could burn off Dillingham's
clothing and hair and epidermis quickly, and kill him slowly. He stood
absolutely still.

The Captain came around the corner and gestured down the hall.
Dillingham marched as directed. No other communication occurred. Had the
creature understood?

They entered a blank cold cubicle. A single neon cast an eerie light on
the single locked file-cabinet. This was an ancient ship, to have
equipment like this! The Captain drew out a genuine physical metal key
and unlocked the cabinet. He withdrew a bundle of cards. His tentacles
riffed through them before selecting one. He held it up.

It was a symbol in the shorthand, neatly printed. It said: JANN.

The Captain understood! The sharp old codger had already divined
Dillingham's problem. He must have made an inquiry at Metallica, being
too canny to accept a passenger without knowing exactly why the creature
could not afford to wait for a better ship.

Dillingham's first symbol had been the code for EMERGENCY, modified by a
qualifier requesting that no overt acknowledgement be made. It was
essentially a wartime symbol, intended for use by a spy in enemy
territory when open communication could mean discovery and rapid
oblivion. (There must have been interesting chapters in galactic
history!) It was quite out of place in an old vessel on a milk-run--but
the experienced Captain had put one and one together successfully.

The rest was easy. The Captain named a figure for putting the fugitive
ashore in a lifeboat, and Dillingham agreed though the price seemed
high. The Captain then took him to an airlock and installed him in a
tiny compartment. The creature saw that he was securely strapped down,
then punched a destination without using the translator. So far so
good--since no communications equipment had been used the Jann should
have no idea what Dillingham was doing.

But by the same token, Dillingham had no certain notion where the
Captain was sending him.

The airlock closed, sealing him off. There was a rough lurch as the
lifeboat detached itself, then a feeling of tremendous weight as its
antique chemical rockets blasted. He was on his way.

Now that it was too late to change his mind it occurred to him that it
would have been easy for the Captain to route the lifeboat into nowhere,
claiming that it was suicide while collecting the University
remittance...

No! The University would automatically challenge any payment to be made
under suspicious circumstances, and the Captain would be well aware of
that. Foul play would be far more trouble than it was worth.

Anyway, the Captain had an honest snout.

Dillingham did not dare turn on the viewscreen to see where he was
going, because the Jann could probably tap into that too. He had to go
blind, hoping that he was losing the robot as effectively as he was
confusing himself.

Time passed, and he slept, while the boat sailed on. It was in free-fall
now, but he was not: the rotating hull provided partial weight. He
dreamed of scintillating living machines with glowing teeth.

The braking rockets jolted him into uncomfortable awareness. He was
almost there. He hoped it was a civilized planet. Otherwise he had
merely traded one demise for another.

It was a cruel landing. When the pressure and furore subsided and he
regained consciousness, he struggled into a suit and cranked open the
port. He still did not dare to use the powered equipment, for that would
have required instruction over the translator. He was prepared to face a
blizzard or an inferno or solid water or...

He was disappointed. This was plainly the landscape of Metallica.

What had he really expected? Obviously the spaceship had not gone far in
the short time he had been aboard. Naturally the lifeboat, being
chemically underpowered, had taken much longer to traverse the same
distance. Probably most of its thrust had been used merely to reverse
the initial inertia. The closest planet had to be the one he had just
left, for space was large.

And where was the Jann now? By this time the repair should have been
completed...

He smiled. The super-robot would be on Hazard, wondering what had become
of a certain dentist.

Dillingham contemplated the countryside. This was not the same section
of the planet where he had found the Jann. The vegetation here was more
richly metallic, the flower-filaments more brilliant, the green-copper
lichen more abundant, the oil streamlet ungritty. There were rust-capped
mountains, and a valley serviced by a bubbling diesel-fuel lake. And no
sign of civilization.

In short, an unspoiled wilderness area.

All very good. The Jann would eventually figure out the truth and come
jetting back to Metallica, but would hardly find him here. A planet was
too big to search in a hurry. He had scrupulously operated no electronic
equipment, so it could not trace him that way.

Meanwhile, he had merely to avoid starvation.

Behind him the lifeboat translator crackled into life, though he had not
turned it on. "None but I..."

Dillingham sighed. That was another talent he hadn't known about. The
Jann could not only tap into communications, it could operate them
remotely. Thus it had established its rapport with the lifeboat
translator and would home in on that.

That simple!

"How long before you get here?" he inquired with prickly resignation.
The robot must have obtained the registry of the lifeboat and learned
the frequency of its translator, so that--

"Seventeen minutes, mortal. Take care that no harm befall thee in the
interim, for I would suffer sorely were mine oath abridged."

"Thine oath be damned!" Dillingham shouted, and immediately wondered
whether he could accomplish anything by threatening suicide. Probably
not, since the robot would check it out before indulging in other
pursuits. Anyway, he'd have to write out a Last Will & Testament
specifying what his three wishes were, for the sake of the second oath,
and the disposition of the wealth owing from the third oath. Assuming it
worked that way. The money could go to a dental research foundation back
on Earth, and the three wishes--would Miss Galland appreciate three
robotic wishes? It was all too complicated.

Seventeen minutes, ticking away already. Such a short time to hide
himself in this brush, away from the lifeboat. And he'd better dispose
of his University transcoder, too. Unless he wanted to stay and face
down the Jann...

Useless: a machine could not be bluffed. On the other hand, if he did
succeed in eluding it, what would he gain? A tedious expiration from
hunger and thirst?

Opposing the thing physically was out of the question.

He was forty-two years old, and had never been the robust type.

His only real chance was to outsmart it. For all its talents, it did not
seem to be particularly bright, or he would never have escaped it this
long. It could easily have interfered with the lifeboat's guidance
system and made it crash, for example, had it figured out where he was
soon enough. Or prevented him from ever boarding the scow to Hazard, by
fouling up the spaceport translators. It had missed marvellous
opportunities.

Also, it seemed to feel obliged to answer all questions put to it. That
was another machine trait. Probably it was incapable of lying, or of
evading the truth, unlike the inferior contemporary robots. That could
be its weakness.

"Why didn't you foul up the spaceport's communications network, to
prevent me from leaving Metallica?" he asked. Maybe if he probed
enough--

"That would have interfered with thy freedom of motion."

"What do you care about that, since you intend to kill me anyway?"

"The rights of a sentient creature may not be voided, unless directly
contrary to a specific Jann oath. So it is recorded, so must it be.
Wherever thou art, there will I find thee, and there will I do thee die.
Then will I grant thee three wishes, for the second time thou savest
me--"

"And then enrich me forever and ever, for the third time. I know."

"Then only will the oaths be acquitted, and I free."

This didn't seem to be getting him anywhere. He already knew the robot
was impervious to irony about the feasibility of the remaining boons
after the first had been accomplished. Probably there were Jann statutes
to cover the situation even if he never mentioned the oaths in his will.

There were only about ten minutes left. His stomach felt like a sponge
full of pepper-sauce, and his brain was not too clear. He was sure that
he would rest easier if he simply accepted what was to be, but his
innards wouldn't co-operate.

"How can I stop you from killing me?" he blurted.

"I may not tell thee that, mortal, for it would violate the letter of
mine oath."

"So there is a way!"

"I refuse to answer, on the grounds that it might tend to compromise
mine oath, or lead in some devious way to--"

"Oh shut up!" Why had he bothered to try? Even the Jann's archaic
affectations were irritating; he was sure the machine was not consistent
in this speech.

But there was a way! The Jann had tried to evade the issue, but had
bungled it. If only he could figure out the loophole, or trick the
machine into telling him. Perhaps it wanted to tell him, but was
prevented by its metallic code of ethics.

He needed time to think. He had barely five minutes left, but if he
managed to hide, he might have a couple of days before the end. Maybe
growing hunger would sharpen his imagination.

The lifeboat had a supply of water. Dillingham drank until he bulged,
looked for a container to carry some with him, and finally set off
frustrated. No time! The brush was thick, out beyond the section the
rockets had blasted clear. A number of flower filaments gave off heat,
which was another break. The Jann would have a tough time picking him
out by body-warmth.

He heard a peculiar swish in the direction of the lifeboat and couldn't
resist looking back. Sure enough, the Jann was coming down, resplendent
in the sunlight. It was vertical, descending feet-first, like a shining
god. No jets were visible.

To think that this thing had been built by loving mechanical parents
before true civilization ever evolved on Earth! And it was still far
ahead of anything Earth science knew. Yet it was determined to kill the
man who had saved it three times...

He broke from his reverie and moved on, carefully but quickly. He hoped
the Jann was not equipped to sniff out his trail, like a bloodhound.

Evidently it wasn't, for he could hear it casting about in the wrong
direction. He had been smart to divest himself of his last
communications item. Then the Jann appeared in the sky again, swinging
around a pinkish beam of light.

Dillingham ducked behind a humming iron tree until the way was clear. A
beam that was visible in broad daylight was probably well worth
avoiding.

A noise snapped his attention to the ground. There was an animal: a
robot-beast. Its scales were burnished copper, its teeth stainless
steel, its eyes white-hot filaments. He hardly had time to marvel that
it should so strongly resemble an Earthly carnivore, before it sprang.

He dodged instinctively and caught hold of an aluminium sapling to pull
himself away. The creature ground gears with a hungry roar and spun
about as it touched ground, but its momentum prevented it from leaping
again immediately. It had little wheels where foot-pads would have been
on a living predator, and shock absorbers in the ankles.

What possible use would it have for his alien flesh! But he dived for a
larger trunk and scrambled up its knobby bark as the beast came at him.
Now he regretted imbibing all that water! He was weak and heavy, and he
sloshed inside. But the thing chasing him was, after all, an animal, and
probably attacked anything that invaded its hunting-ground--even though
a single bite of Dillingham should foul its gears and rust its tongue.

The jaws snapped just beneath him and a jet of hot air scorched his
posterior. The animal's air-cooling, probably--but it was reminiscent of
eager breath. He climbed another two feet--then stiffened.

Wire tendrils were dropping on him from the tree's tinsel foliage. They
coiled like corkscrews, and a slickness glistened on their points. Acid,
surely...

Below, the animal opened its jaws. Dillingham could see right down its
throat. The effect was that of a sausage-grinder.

He was trapped. The first tree-wire touched his head, and he smelled
burning hair and felt a sharp pain as though a magnifying glass were
focused on that spot. He jerked away--towards the grinning beast.

"Help!" he cried, not caring how inane it sounded or how useless it was.

And the Jann came.

In seconds it whistled through the brush and landed beside the tree. A
lance of fire from its chest melted the face of the predator.
Ear-splitting sonics from its head caused the tree's wires to retreat
hastily. "None but I shall do thee die!" the Jann bellowed.

It reached for Dillingham. He closed his eyes, knowing the end had come.
Metal pincers closed on his body, lifted. For a moment he dangled; then
he felt the ground under his feet.

Dillingham stumbled as the robot let go. "I wish you'd get it over
with," he said, now oddly calm.

"First must I grant thee one token boon, before I do thee die. Thou must
needs make thy request within fifteen seconds, according to Jannish
custom." It began ticking, one tick per second, as though it were a
metronome. Or a bomb.

Fifteen seconds to come up with that loophole, when he hadn't been able
to do it in the past day! Ten seconds, and the Jann was aiming its
chest-nozzle at him. Five, and his mind was numb...

"A postponement!" he cried, half facetiously.

"Granted," the Jann said. "How long?"

Ah, foolishness. "Fifty years!"

He waited for the derisive bolt of heat, but it didn't come. "Granted,
mortal."

Dillingham stared. "You mean--you'll wait?"

It almost seemed that the metal face was smiling. The mouth was open, at
any rate, and the gleaming new tooth was visible. Apparently the Hazard
spaceshop had stocked the item, restoring the caution-circuit.
"Originally I contemplated a shorter period, but I perceived that this
would be an injustice. Thou art not the fortune-hunter I expected, nor
yet the fool I suspected. And we Jann are not unmindful of honest
courtesies rendered."

Dillingham was abruptly reminded of Oyster, whose mode of operation had
a certain similarity to this. He hoped he never encountered another such
personality. "So you modified the spirit of the oath slightly," he
suggested, "if not the letter."

"Our oaths are always subject to interpretation," the Jann agreed. "I
could not tell thee, but I delayed for a time, that thou shouldst
realize it for thyself. None but I shall do thee die: no animal, no
entity, no microbe, no act of nature. But it shall be a kind demise, and
it shall come in exactly fifty years, as thou requesteth. I shall always
be near thee, to see that mine oath is honoured."

So the Jann had become a bodyguard, perhaps the most competent in all
the galaxy, preserving him from all perils until he was ninety-two. Just
a tiny shift in interpretation, and the oath had swung from negative to
positive.

"That tooth--did it contain your compassion-circuit, too?" he asked,
suddenly catching on.

"Even so, mortal."

"Well come on, Jann," Dillingham cried, remembering something. "We have
a student strike to deal with, back at the University. Oyster will kill
me if I don't manage to relieve the siege before all his files are
gone!"

CHAPTER SEVEN
-------------

"Now here is the problem of your contract," Trach said. "Gleep
transferred it to Ra, so--"

Judy was almost convinced that Trach was not the monster he appeared. He
had not, after all, eaten her when he had the opportunity, and certainly
he was the essence of politeness. He claimed to be a vegetarian reptile,
and if he were not fattening her up for a later feast...

"Does that mean it wasn't a mistake? The trolls--my being on the--?"

"They don't make mistakes of that nature," he said reassuringly. "You
are on their list."

"To die in the radium mines?" Maybe it would be preferable to be eaten
by a dinosaur! "How could the muck-a-muck do such a terrible thing? I
trusted him to help me!"

"Merely good business practice. Nothing personal. He wouldn't be
muck-a-muck if he wasted Gleep's credit status. Fifty pounds of
frumpstiggle--"

"He told me a hundred!" she said indignantly.

"That was to improve your self-image. It was his impression that you
were overly dependent on Dr. Dillingham and lacked confidence in your
own dental abilities."

"But I'm not a dentist! I can't do prosthodontic--"

"Pretty sharp judge of character, that muck-a-muck. You do lack
confidence."

"Oh, shut up!"

"At any rate, he did help you. He notified me, knowing that I would
arrange something. That's my business, after all--arranging things for
mutual profit and my own. Unfortunately--"

"You don't have fifty pounds of frumpstiggle?"

"As a matter of fact, I have considerably more, thanks to a generous
settlement on Dr. Dillingham and a successful mission at Electrolus.
But--"

"But--?"

"But the trolls of Ra are very fussy about allowing any entity to
depart. Once they hold a contract--"

"They won't let go," she finished grimly.

"Not readily. Others in the galaxy have some very ugly suspicions about
Ra. If too many prospective miners were to be released, those suspicions
would be amply confirmed. Then it would be almost impossible for Ra to
buy up contracts, at any price, and there could be galactic lawsuits for
Ra's violation of contractee rights. There might even be an AUP
quarantine for industrial malpractice, and that would finish Ra."

"AUP?"

"Association of University Presidents. Very potent."

"I see. So I have to take up pick and shovel?"

"Oh, no. They are very efficient here. You would work in your
speciality, caring for the miners' teeth. Better dentures allow them to
consume cruder staples, and that is more economical, you see."

"I see again. I don't approve the motive, though."

"Appreciation of Ra motives is an acquired taste. In certain respects,
there is more need here for medical and dental assistants than for full
MDs or DDSs, because only short-term measures are economical. The
radiation, you know. And you would still be exposed to that."

She nodded. Had she really thought her prospects back on Earth bad?

"I have not relinquished the problem, Miss Galland. I merely wish you to
comprehend its magnitude. Naturally we'll find a way to remove you from
Ra."

"I comprehend the magnitude. What do I have to do, to escape?"

"You have to obtain a sponsor who is able to influence the troll
hierarchy. I can arrange temporary reprieve, but my influence is
limited. I'm only a diplomat. If I push my luck--"

"The mines for you too," she said. "Will you teach the prisoners
diplomacy as they perish from radiation?"

"I doubt it would come to that, but there could be awkwardness. However,
I'll see what I can do. I have had experience at a number of influential
courts."

Judy smiled appreciatively, but she had little hope.

Trach had been unduly modest about his resources. Within six hours there
was an urgent call from the Monarch of Lepidop: he wanted an experienced
dental assistant and he wanted this particular one. Since his subjects
were resistive to radium poisoning, a task force of his navy
traditionally transported Ra's annual output of ten pounds pure to the
galactic markets.

He had, in short, influence.

The troll hierarchy swallowed its gall and hastily made a gift of Judy's
contract to the Monarch, compliments of the honourable reputation of Ra.
To make it quite clear where she had come from, they decided to brand
her first. Of course, if she were willing to swear never to reveal what
she had seen planetside, even this small formality might be dispensed
with...

Judy contemplated the sizzling branding iron, thought about the
difficulty she would have sitting down thereafter, and saw her courage
go up in steam. She agreed not to talk.

Then the troll released her hair and she fell to the floor.

Trach took her to Lepidop himself. This was a favour she appreciated
less than she might have, for his ship was a frightening rattletrap. But
she suspected that this was Trach's way of saving his own reptilian
hide, for the trolls of Ra surely were aware of his part in Lepidop's
demand, and would not delay unduly in attempting to resettle the score.
Nice world, Ra.

Lepidop, in contrast, was truly beautiful. Iridescent films decorated
its aesthetic continents, and rainbows were reflected from its shining
oceans.

The ship jolted to rest on a platform mounted on a spire about two miles
above the surface. July was afraid the weight of the ship would collapse
the insubstantial edifice, but there was no sag or tremor. They emerged
to meet the Lepidops.

"Butterflies!" Judy exclaimed. "What marvellous wings!"

"This is Lepidop," Trach reminded her gently. "Capital world of the
declining Lepidopteran Empire. But you are right to compliment their
wings: Leps are subject to flattery. Now the honour guard will insist on
conveying you personally to the Monarch, and I don't see how you can
refuse."

"An honour guard? I'm the one who's flattered! And I want to thank the
Monarch effusively for saving me from Ra. Why should I refuse?"

"Well, their mode of transportation is not to every creature's taste. I
would prefer to walk, myself. But since I am not permitted within the
palace environs, I shall merely relay my compliments and depart for my
next mission."

"You're going?" Her original distrust of him was as though it had never
been. Trach was as nice a dinosaur as she had ever met. "I thought--"

"Some of the finer architectural structures are delicate, and I'm rather
solid," he explained. An understatement; she judged he weighed several
tons. "But the Monarch is basically a kindly fellow; don't let his
gruffness fool you. And beware of palace intrigues. I'm sure he'll treat
you well, provided--"

"But how do I find Dr. Dillingham?"

"I'll notify the University of Dentistry. They'll advise him in due
course. You just stay put and wait for word. It may take a while."

She had other questions, suddenly pressing now that Trach was about to
leave her. But the man-sized butterflies were upon them, a fluttering
phalanx. "Provided what?" she whispered urgently.

"Miss Earthbiped?" a translator inquired. She didn't see the instrument,
but hardly needed to. There was always a translator within earshot on
civilized planets, except for places like Gleep where such machinery was
inconvenient, and Enen, where they couldn't afford the expense. She
automatically associated the translation with the speaker, as she had
once associated sub-titles with foreign speech in Earth movies.

"This is Miss Galland of Earth," Trach said formally. She had to pick up
the introduction through the translator, for he was speaking directly in
Lepidopteran. He was a phenomenal linguist! "Summoned by the Monarch,
for dental assistancy and hygiency." And privately to her: "Provided he
lives."

"This way, honoured guest," the lead butterfly said, spreading his huge
yellow wings as he turned. Judy followed him to an ornate and fragile
little cage, the other butterflies falling in around her and matching
her step. "Enter the royal carriage."

She hesitated, the Ra experience fresh in her memory. This thing had
neither wheels nor runners, and white bars encircled it. It reminded her
of a lobster trap. But Trach gave her a thumbs-up signal from across the
platform, and she had to trust him again. She opened the latticed gate
and climbed in.

The fit was tight, vertically, and there was no proper seat; evidently
this had been designed for a reclining butterfly. A narrow section of
the top was peaked: space for folded wings to project.

The yellow butterfly closed the gate with one of his six small legs. She
arranged herself half-supine, propped against one elbow so she could
wave to Trach. Then the others circled the cage, picked up threads
hanging from its sides, and beat the white wings in unison while the
yellow called the cadence.

"Hup! Two! Three! Four!" she heard, not certain whether there was a
translator, or at least a little transcoder in the cage, or whether her
own mind was doing it. "Hup!... Hup!..."

Suddenly they were aloft: butterflies, cage and Judy--clinging
desperately to the bars. No wonder Trach had been nervous about the
transportation. But it was too late to protest now.

They flew over the edge of the platform, and she closed her eyes to stop
the vertigo. Two miles in the air--with only butterfly wings and slender
threads to support her! Did the Monarch often travel this way? Was that
what Trach had meant by his hasty warning: the Monarch would treat her
well, provided he lived? Let one thread snag, one wing falter...

But the cadence was steady, and she was reassured that they were not
about to drop her. She watched the aerial life of Lepidop: brown-winged
butterflies, grey ones, green ones and blue, gliding their myriad ways.
A number carried bags in two or three hands, as though they had been
shopping, and others clustered and whirled in dazzling mid-air games.

Yet Trach had said the Lepidopteran Empire was declining.

The palace was a tremendous silken nest, with massed strands forming
gleaming geometric patterns that glowed prismatically in the slanting
sunlight. At every nexus a pastel-winged butterfly perched, gently
fanning the air. "Air-conditioning!" she murmured.

The cage came to rest in a cushiony chamber, and the bearers let go the
threads. Judy disembarked cautiously, and found the seemingly tenuous
webbing quite strong. It gave a little under her feet, adding bounce to
her step, and was in fact rather fun to walk on. Trach would have put a
foot through, however.

The yellow butterfly led the way to the throne room. This was a splendid
chamber whose lofty arches reached into a nebulous web-flung dome and
whose furniture was all of stressed silk. Upon the mighty yet delicate
throne reclined the ruler of the planet and empire.

The Monarch was old. His torso was stiff and scaley, his antennae
drooped, and his wings were dead white cardboard. Had he been human, she
would have assessed his age at an infirm eighty. She knew immediately
that he had no teeth.

Why, then, had he wanted a dental assistant? Had his demand been made
purely as a favour to Trach, or was there more to it?

"My dear, come here," the Monarch whispered, and the translator conveyed
jointly benign and imperative tonality.

She stepped up to him, impressed by his bearing despite his antiquity.
It was no longer a mystery why Trach had been concerned for the
Monarch's life. It was as though the very act of speaking might
terminate his span.

"You care for teeth?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," she replied, deciding not to quibble over
descriptions. She was no dentist, but she did take care of teeth.

"You have experience with--" here he paused to regain his shallow
breath. "Lepidop mandibulars?"

"On my world, butterflies don't have teeth."

"Interesting. On Lepidop (another breath), primates don't have teeth."
He laughed--a painful rattle, even in translation. "But I suppose you
(breath) don't have genuine lepids, any (breath) more than we have real
primates. (Breath, breath) It is merely a con (breath) venience of
expression."

Judy was happy to agree. This royal butterfly had no connection to any
Earthly creature, just as Judy Galland had no connection to any galactic
biped. The Monarch was not stupid, but he was rapidly weakening from the
effort of conversation. Gruffness was hardly the problem; a fatal
over-sociability might be.

"Dismissed," the Monarch snapped.

Two small purple Leps hurried her out of the chamber. "He's obnoxious
when balked," one confided to her. "But he'll die soon, fortunately,"
the other said.

This irritated her unreasonably. "Now stop that! I think he's very nice,
and I won't have you saying such things behind his back."

The butterflies tittered, and she realized that she had chosen a poor
figure of speech that the translator had rendered literally. There was
no "behind" for a butterfly's back; there was only "above". And that
ruined the sentiment. She had made a fool of herself to no purpose.
Their remarks might even have been well intentioned--and were probably
true.

Well, Trach had told her to beware of palace intrigues. She had probably
already put her foot in it by speaking out thoughtlessly. She would be
more careful henceforth.

They showed her to a private chamber without further comment and left
her. There was a galactic all-purpose unit that took care of all
conceivable and some inconceivable physical needs, and she had learned
how to squeeze entertainment from a standard translator. "Sing me a
ballad," she directed it. And it did.

The Monarch summoned her to another audience next day. He was
considerably more affable, and she suspected that the court minions had
dutifully relayed her remarks to him. She had spoken automatically, but
she had defended the Monarch. Had she been negatively impressed, she
might have said something entirely different, with no more thought. Or
just let it pass. Little accidents like this could make all the
difference, as she knew from her experience with patients on Earth. That
was one reason dental assistants were usually personable and cautious
about giving opinions. Usually.

Now she almost felt guilty for speaking out, as though she had
deliberately played politics. Maybe, subconsciously she had.

But still the Monarch had no teeth, so could have no use for her. She
was embarrassed, holding her little case of instruments. What politics
was he playing?

"My dear, I like your spirit. (Breath) Most visitors praise me lavishly
(breath) to my antennae, but sneer (breath) behind their wings. How
would (breath) you like to visit my past?"

"Your Majesty, I don't understand."

"I am forty-two years old," he said. The translator had rendered the
time span into her terms, just as the all-purpose unit had created light
and darkness to match her Earthly pattern of day and night. But it was a
surprise. The Monarch was just about the same age as Dr. Dillingham! "We
Lepids have lesser lifespans (breath) than some of you landbound forms.
But then we (breath) have greater abilities. So life is fair."

She had little basis to object, yet the Monarch's abilities were
obviously long past. "I don't know how to--to visit your past. I'm
sorry."

"Of course you don't, my dear. (Breath) I shall take you. Ten years; I
(breath) have strength enough for that.!

Whatever it was, if it required strength it was best discouraged. He
could afford no superfluous expenditures of energy. "I don't see what
this has to do with dental hygiene, Your Majesty. Why take me?"

"Give me your hand," the Monarch said. "Oh, you have only two. (Breath)
Awkward, but I suppose you're used to it."

"Yes." Hesitantly she held out one of her few hands, and he took it with
one of his stick-thin members. His grasp was so feeble that she was
afraid to close her fingers; even her lightest grip might crush his
chitinous appendage.

He shuddered. Something like a mild shock went up her arm. Then there
was a strange shimmer. A wave of dizziness passed over her.

Ten years," the Monarch said with pride. "My subjects can manage no more
than five, even in their primes."

She disengaged her hand from his surprisingly strong grip and looked at
him, wondering whether he could be senile. A decade could not be wished
away.

His wings were orange. His body was full. His antennae were erect. He
looked twenty years younger.

Judy felt strange. Her clothing did not fit comfortably. Her blouse was
loose, her skirt tight, her shoes wrong. She felt gangling and her face
itched. What was wrong?

"And now I have my teeth again," he said, smiling. And he did. "Of
course they are not in good condition, and in five more years I lost
them entirely. But with your care and advice I may be able to preserve
them longer."

This seemed to answer an important question, but she hardly heard him.
"I'm younger too!" she exclaimed.

"Naturally. So is the palace, the planet, the galaxy. This is my past."

"Time travel? That's impossible!"

"Impossible for you, certainly. And for most species. That is why I was
able to extend my empire so readily, though it is drifting away now that
my powers have declined."

"But what about paradox? I mean--"

"There is no conflict. We are ten years younger, and the universe is ten
years younger, but we are not of it, precisely. The full explanation
would be too technical for your comprehension. We merely experience, we
do not affect, except for our own bodies."

Judy shook her head. "How could you conquer an empire if you couldn't
use your talent to affect it?"

"Simple. I travel to a foreign planet, then I visit its past and make
notes. Then I comprehend its vulnerability, and in the present I exploit
it. No enemy strategy is a surprise to me, nor can it ever be, unless it
dates from beyond my own lifetime."

"Your Majesty, it still doesn't make sense. I see you younger, and I
seem to be about sixteen myself. But when I was really sixteen I was a
high-school girl on Earth, ruining my teeth with cola. So this can't
be--"

"It is my past, my dear, not yours. You become younger merely to stay in
phase with me. I would take you to Earth and show you that school of
yours, but my migrating years are over and no ship will respond to our
touch now. You may look at Lepidop instead."

"Don't tell me you migrated between planets without ships!"

"Don't tell you? Very well, you shall remain ignorant of that talent."
The Monarch preceded her to a silken parapet walling off a bulging room,
so that they actually stood outside the body of the castle. Beyond it
the colourful butterflies danced in the early dusk, whirling in columns
of turbulence. "See, the chrono gives the date," he said, gesturing
towards a huge clock-tower about a mile distant. "Just over ten years
ago."

She was the clock but did not know how to read its symbols. She was
coming to believe that they had travelled back; nothing else explained
the phenomena. She was younger; she could not be deceived about a thing
like that. The Monarch now had plenty of breath and physical vigour, and
he did have remarkable powers.

A yellow messenger lighted on the parapet. July stepped back, but the
insect took no note of her or the Monarch. The yellow mouth parts were
moving, but she heard no translation. Naturally not, she realized when
she considered it: the machines could not have been programmed for
English ten years before she came. They would be inoperative for
her--and of course unnecessary for the natives.

Then how, she wondered sharply, was she able to hear and comprehend the
Monarch's present speech?

"My dear," he remarked, "your thought processes are so delightfully
open. The phase applies to the translators too, but only for you and me.
We cannot communicate with the creatures of this time, or indeed make
ourselves known to them in any way. I heard no more than you did, just
then."

"Oh," she said, more perplexed than ever.

A thick-bodied, furry antennaed drab moth arrived on foot. It gazed out
over the parapet a moment as though envious of the aerial ceremonies
beyond, then lowered its head to the wall. A tremendous tongue uncurled
and brushed the tight strands that formed the parapet and all the
castle/palace. She saw with shock that its wings had been partially
clipped, so that it could not fly.

"The menials come out at night," the Monarch murmured distastefully. "We
don't associate with them, of course, but we recognize that they do have
to clean the grounds sometime."

"The moths? They do the work?"

"That is the natural order, since they are basically inferior. We merely
relieve them of the onus of making decisions. No doubt they are happier
than we are."

The moth hardly looked happy. It seemed resigned, feeling no
frustration, apart from that one glance outside, because it had no hope.
She started to voice a protest at this callousness of the Monarch, but
he spoke first: "We'll return to the throne-room. You shall instruct me
on caring for my teeth."

That was right--the Monarch had teeth now! This was one thing she was
qualified to do. "Suppose I clean your teeth while I explain about the
procedures?"

"Excellent." He settled on the throne and opened his mouth. His teeth
were surprisingly similar to those of a human being: twenty four of
them, divided into incisors and molars, sixteen and eight respectively.
No cuspids. Normal occlusion. That, as galactic dentition went, was
practically, identical to her own set.

She brought out her instruments, set up the sterilizer, and tied a
protective cloth about his furry neck. This was awkward, because his
head was not attached in a familiar manner, but she had learned not to
let such details interfere. She lifted a sealer and began to check.

"Your teeth are not in the best condition, I'm afraid," she remarked.
"There's a good deal of erosion, and the gums--"

"Ouch!"

"Are a trifle tender. You need the attention of a dentist."

"Allow a moth to touch my royal teeth?" he demanded incredulously.

Oh-oh. "Don't you have any butterfly dentists?"

"Certainly not. No butterfly would soil his dignity by learning a
trade."

"Trade? Dentistry is a profession."

"Kingship is a profession, my dear. I would have any subject who fell so
low as to practise a manual art put under the lights."

The lights?"

"Executed, to employ a euphemism. You would not care to know the
details, my charming alien hygienist." Then he fathomed her thought.
"No, there is no such restriction on aliens; we understand that the ways
of the galaxy differ from ours peculiarly. No stigma attaches to you.
You are not at fault for having been hatched on a barbarian world."

That did not allay all her concerns, but she let it pass. Judy was
beginning to appreciate the full extent of the problem. No wonder the
Monarch had lost all his teeth.

"Well, I can show you how to extend the life of your teeth, but it's
already pretty late. Too much damage has already been done."

Ten years is not far enough back?"

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty, it isn't."

"Explain anyway."

She continued to work, cleaning away the immediate residue of what
appeared to be years of neglect. "Oral prophylaxis is much more than
just cleaning the teeth. The whole mouth, the entire habitat has to be
considered. The food of primitive species tends to be hard, tough and
gritty, and it cleans the teeth naturally. But civilized foods tend to
be soft and sticky, and many essential nutrients are refined out. And
sugar--processed saccharine--well, it's best to stay away from it, if
you value your teeth."

"But I love sweet foods!"

"Your teeth have already informed me of that. If you insist on eating
sweets, at least keep your teeth clean at all times. A truly clean tooth
cannot decay. And it is important to disturb the natural bacteria in
your mouth regularly, for some of these attack the enamel of your teeth.
You can't eliminate all bacteria, but you can rout them out and keep
them uncomfortable, so that they never have a chance to multiply and
mass against your teeth."

"You are beginning to make sense," the Monarch said. "But how do I keep
them clean?"

"You brush them, for one thing." She brought out a toothbrush, one of
the few remaining from her original supply. Well, when they were gone,
they were gone. "I'm sure you have better instruments and better systems
at Lepidop, but the principle is constant: get them clean. Now I'll
demonstrate the best way to clean off the surfaces, then you can do it
yourself after every meal."

"But--"

It was her turn to divine his thought. "This can't be considered manual
labour. It's hygiene. Only the most finicky and enlightened persons
practise it. Clean teeth are a mark of, er, nobility."

"Naturally," he replied, having known it all the time.

"But brushing isn't enough." She brought out a spool of dental tape,
"This is more difficult but more important. You have to pass the tape
between your teeth, like this--"

"Ouch!"

"Now that didn't hurt, Your Majesty! You just expected it to. You pass
it between your teeth and pull it back and forth a little, and it
polishes the surfaces the brush can't reach. Darn these inexperienced
adolescent fingers of mine! There. And right there, in the crevices
between the teeth, is where food is most likely to collect, and where
the undisturbed bacteria will feed and multiply in their own contented
microcosm. You no more want to ignore these places than you want to
ignore an assassin in your palace. Bacteria are assassins to your
teeth."

"Suddenly I understand you very well! Give me that tape!"

His digits were much stronger than they had been when he was old. Before
long he became proficient in both brushing and taping.

"Now," he said, "I begin to weary. Take my hand."

She took it, thinking he needed help, but as the vertigo passed over her
she realized that they were jumping forward again in time.

She was twenty-six again, her clothing fitted snugly, and the Monarch
was back at forty-two/eighty-odd. His wings were bleached, his antennae
sagged.

"But look," he gasped before she left. "Teeth!"

He was right. They were so dilapidated as to be almost useless, but they
were there and they seemed clean. "You took care of them!" she cried,
delighted.

"For ten (breath) long years." He flopped on the throne, exhausted.
"Dismissed."

It was several days before the Monarch summoned her again. "It is very
tiring, revisiting the past," he explained. "And tedious, following your
instructions. But it saved my teeth for five years longer than they
lasted before. You gave good advice."

"I tried to," she said, but the whole business amazed her. How could
they really have travelled back in time? But if they hadn't, how had the
Monarch recovered his teeth? They were not good teeth, but they were
genuine.

Ten years were not enough to grant me perfect dentures," he said. "Would
twenty years do it?"

Twenty years were equivalent to forty in his life, she remembered. He
would be half his present age--Hardly past his prime. "It might."

"Take my hand."

She obeyed while protesting. "But your Majesty. The strain--"

The dizziness overcame her, worse than before.

When she regained equilibrium, things had changed drastically. The
Monarch was tremendous--twice his original size--and the throne had
expanded to match. His wings were brilliant orange delicately veined,
bordered on the fringes with a double row of white spots set in black.
His torso was full and strong, his antennae were long and firm. He was a
splendid figure of an insect.

And his teeth, as he smiled, were fine and even. He had done it: he had
taken them back to the time before dietary dissipation and dental
neglect had damaged his teeth irreparably.

But Judy was in trouble. She looked at herself. Her clothing hung upon
her in gross festoons, her shoes were like boxes, and her dental case
was impossibly heavy.

She had lost two decades. Physically, she was six years old.

"Come fly with me, my dear," the Monarch said. "This is my time of
power."

"But I'm not dressed!" she wailed.

"Neither am I. Does it matter?"

What use to debate with a butterfly about clothing! Her blouse was now
as big on her as a dress, and far less neatly shaped. She belted it
around her middle with a strand of dental tape and discarded much of the
rest of her apparel. It would have to do.

They went to the parapet, its outer bulge now swollen into a large
balcony. "But you said equipment wouldn't work for you here," she
protested, remembering what he had said ten years later (three or four
days ago, subjective time). "How can you fly?"

"You jest, my dear," he said benignly, and hooked four hands into the
back of her blouse-dress. She screeched as the dental tape snapped and
she had to scramble to avoid complete dshabill.

The Monarch flexed his handsome wings. Air blasted down, and then they
were aloft. By the time she managed to knot her outfit securely about
her, the palace had fallen away and the ground was already awesomely far
below.

Now she was glad she weighed so little. Her blouse was good nylon,
but...

"Material power," the Monarch said as they flew. "It has been claimed by
sages on my world and perhaps even on yours that this can not bring
happiness, but assuredly it can. At this moment in the span of my reign
I control seventy systems, each with one or more habitable planets, and
I hold a virtual monopoly on the distribution of Ra radium throughout
the galaxy. I have phenomenal wealth, and even the lowliest of my
subjects live in ease. Look there?"

She peered as he swooped low. There was a silver city with minarets and
flying buttresses, each structure bedecked with scores of bright green
butterflies. It was as beautiful a municipality as she had ever seen.

"Is this your capital?" she asked.

He laughed resoundingly. This is Luna--the slum-city of Lepidop. Every
occupant is a moth. See the ugly spots on those wings."

The spots were not ugly to her. "Luna moths," she murmured.

"And look there!" he said, moving on.

It was a forest, but like none she had known on Earth. Each huge tree
was barrel-shaped, its foliage on the outside, its fruit hanging inside.
She learned that when the fruit became ripe it dropped so that more
could be grown on the same stem. There was preservative gas within the
hollow centre, so that the tree gradually filled with its own fresh
fruit, a natural storehouse. There was enough stockpiled in this one
forest to feed several cities for months.

"And there!"

Now they came upon an ocean of water-colour-paint water. Geysers plumed
from its sparkling depths into the sky, forming ambient vapour-scapes of
every lovely hue. Swallow-tails spun within these falling mists,
spraying rainbows from their wings.

"This is my empire," the Monarch said. "This is power, this is beauty,
this is joy." And Judy had to agree.

They returned to the palace. "Why don't you build a dental clinic in
this time," she inquired, "so that no citizen needs to have lived
without proper care: The best food is wasted if your teeth are poor, and
no one can be happy when he has a toothache."

"What I do now can only affect myself," he reminded her. "And you, to a
lesser extent. But in our normal time I shall build a clinic for the
future."

She checked his teeth. "There is some damage, but I'm sure that proper
care will preserve these for the rest of your life," she said. "Brush
them after every meal, and brush the rest of your mouth too, to disturb
the bacteria. Use the dental tape, don't eat any more processed
carbohydrates than you really have to, and have your mouth checked every
six months."

"But who will do the checking?"

That moth problem again! And of course the Monarch could not summon any
off-world dentist to work on his teeth, in this flashback status. "I
suppose you'll just have to do the best you can by yourself. That isn't
ideal, but it will certainly help."

Then she cleaned his teeth carefully, though her tiny six-year-old hands
were clumsy at so specialized a task. She reviewed him on the techniques
of dental-prophylaxis until she was satisfied that he knew exactly what
to do.

Finally they returned to the present. There was some awkwardness about
her tangled clothing that amused the Monarch, but he was too fatigued to
laugh long. He collapsed almost immediately, frightening her. Twenty
years seemed to have been a terrific strain on his system.

The Monarch was old again, but did seem to be in better health than
before, as though his attention to diet had helped more than his teeth.
And his teeth were improved; he was still able to chew most foods
without discomfort.

If human beings had the ability to impart their knowledge to their
younger selves, as the Monarch had done, they might all have superior
teeth, she thought wistfully.

Months passed. Judy was well treated at the palace, and from time to
time (figuratively) the Monarch summoned her for conversation. He was
inordinately proud of his preserved teeth, and gave her full credit for
the advice that had in effect restored them. But her service to him had
ended; she could leave Lepidop at any time she found somewhere better to
go.

Yet there was a certain lingering dissatisfaction. His teeth were not
perfect, and she knew that he concealed occasional pains, not wanting to
admit this flaw in the gift. It would have been so much better for him
to have had the regular supervision of a dentist (even a moth dentist!),
for the patient simply could not do everything for himself.

She was increasingly nervous, too, because she had not heard from the
University. Trach was long gone and she had no idea how to reach him.
She might have placed an interplanetary call, but this was expensive and
she did not have a planet to reach. He could be anywhere in the galaxy.

Had the dinosaur notified those authorities of her whereabouts? Had they
in turn notified Dr. Dillingham? Had he been interested enough to put in
a requisition for her, or whatever it was at this level? She had
supposed that Dr. Dillingham had been satisfied with her performance,
back on Earth, and might like to have her as his assistant again. But as
a University administrator he would rate the best, and she could not
delude herself about her status there. She was used to his mannerisms
and individual techniques, and that was all.

She made use of the comprehensive Lepidop library of dental information,
studying the configurations of the dentures of a thousand alien species.
She visited the lowly moth dentists, and found them a good deal more
knowledgeable than the opinion of the butterflies suggested. She asked
the translator about the university--its procedures and hierarchy. She
waited.

Nothing. Either the message had not got through, or Dillingham was not
interested. She was helpless.

"I have had a taste of better health," the Monarch said, shaking his
faintly orange wings. "It incites me to desire more. If twenty years did
this, what might thirty do?"

That would be equivalent to sixty, by her scale. He would in effect be
twenty--at the very prime of life. Of course, nothing short of a
complete overhaul from the moment of conception on would provide him
with absolutely perfect teeth, but--

"If I begin caring for my teeth in the flush of my youth, at the time I
first emerged from the chrysalis, they will remain strong forever!" he
cried.

She kept forgetting that the butterfly lifecycle differed from her own.
Perhaps that was time enough.

"Come, my dear--take my hand."

She tried to stop herself, but his word compelled her just as though she
were a butterfly subject. "Wait!" she cried, suddenly realizing what
thirty years would mean to her. "I can't go back to--"

And the vertigo overcame her.

It was much worse than before. She felt as though she were being turned
inside out through the mouth and dipped in lye. She felt, she fought,
she expired, she emerged into--

Nightmare.

The choking crying bleeding miasma of extinction. Her arms were bound in
mummy wrappings, her eyeballs were rotten. She screamed with the
soundlessness of an anguished ghost. Maggots were feeding on her tongue,
flames on her wings.

She had tried to go back to four years before she had been born.

But it was not her own demise she experienced. The Monarch was dead. His
ancient husk of a body dangled from her hand when she stood, and when
she tried to let go his desiccated appendage it fell apart.

"Murderous alien!" the purple court butterflies cried, discovering her
in her guilt. "You made the Monarch attempt the impossible. You
crucified him on your short life-span, and he is four years defunct, and
now the Empire will fall!"

Judy found no way to protest. She had led him on to it, however
unwittingly.

"You shall die the death of a thousand lights!" they screamed. "Moths
shall spit on your remains!"

They put her with all her possessions in a cocoon tower near the apex of
the castle. She could see beyond the strands to overlook the lovely
countryside, but she could not break the tough webbing or force it apart
in order to escape. It was like invisibly barbed wire. In any event, it
was a long, long fall to the moat, and sharklike beetle larvae cruised
that dreary channel.

Butterflies swooped from the sky, their wings translucent in the sun.
Each carried a beamer pointed towards Judy's prison. Some of these rods
were silver, some black, some green--all the hues of Lepidop. The
insects zoomed at her in single file, and from each weapon a narrow
light speared into her cage.

At first she flung herself aside, trying to avoid the profusions of
beams, but she could not escape them all. Then she discovered that they
did not hurt her. They were merely lights, that illuminated her prison
momentarily and faded harmlessly.

Was the execution, then, a bluff?

Pain blossomed in her leg. One of those lights was a laser!

An hour and several scorches later she figured it out. At irregular
intervals a butterfly would approach carrying an orange rod--the colour
matching the wings of the dead Monarch. This was the laser--the beam she
had to avoid.

But it was nervous work. She had to watch every butterfly, and there
were always several in sight. The beamers were not easy to see until
almost within effective range, so she had only a moment to spot the
orange one and dodge its pencil-thin sword of heat. The web-flung bars
of the cage inhibited her view at critical moments, too. The beams were
somehow set to have effect only in her vicinity; they passed through the
cage strands harmlessly, and dissipated beyond the cocoon. She was the
only target; when her attention lapsed, she got stung.

So far the wounds had been painful but not critical. Eventually a laser
would be sure to strike an eye or some other vital spot, and then...

The death of a thousand lights. She understood it now. A hundred
thousand threats, one thousand actual attacks. One or two strikes she
could forget; ten or twenty she could suffer through; one or two hundred
she could survive with proper medical attention. But a thousand would
surely finish her. Those she managed to avoid still took their toll, for
she could not relax at any time while watching for them, and sleep would
be impossible.

Sometimes one laser followed another consecutively. Sometimes half an
hour passed between shots, though the innocent-light butterflies swooped
past steadily at intervals of five to ten seconds. The average laser
came around fifteen minutes. That would be four an hour, she calculated
feverishly, or almost a hundred in a twenty-four hour span.

It would take ten days for the torture to expend itself. Far longer than
she could remain alert. Eventually she would sink into unconsciousness,
from fatigue if not from wounds.

The death of a thousand lights.

Her eyes ached. The constantly oncoming butterflies blurred. They no
longer seemed beautiful; they were wings of horror. Always one passing
close, its light aiming, stabbing. Always one a few seconds behind, its
beamer lost in the distance. And others, trailing back into the sky--an
ominous parade of beating wings.

She cried out. She had nodded off without realizing it, hypnotized by
the steadily cruising, flexing wings. A laser had scored, singeing a
strand of her hair and scorching one shoulder. It was as though a white
hot poker had been jammed against her, destroying flesh and bone to a
depth of a quarter inch and cauterizing its own wound.

Night came, but no relief. Now the moths were marshalled to the task,
their rods softly glowing in the same array of colours. This was no
favour to her, she knew. She had to be given a chance to spot the orange
ones. Otherwise her vigil would be useless, and she would have simply to
lie down and let the beams come. That would remove half the torture and
shorten its duration.

She nodded off again, and was struck again--but this time she had been
fortunate enough to pick up almost thirty minutes of sleep. That enabled
her to remain alert for several more hours.

Then the blurring resumed, and would not be denied. She had a tightening
headache, and she knew that the long dismal end was coming. She would
waste herself away, fighting it, but her point of no-hope was incipient.
All she had wanted to do was to rejoin Dr. Dillingham; the cruellest
part of it all was his failure to respond. He would have responded, she
was sure now, had he been told. Maybe the University had buried the
message as crackpot. Maybe he already had a thoroughly competent
galactic assistant...

She chided herself for feeling sorry for herself, then reacted angrily:
now was the best of all times to feel sorry for herself!

A larger light showed in the distance. She thought it was the rising
Lepidop sun, and marvelled that the night should have passed so quickly.
But it seemed to be star-shaped. And not natural. With an effort she
unblurred enough to make out the glint of metal. A machine of some sort,
flying through the air, but no aeroplane!

From it a searchlight-sized beam emerged, sweeping across the planet.
Was this the final laser?

She screamed involuntarily as the huge light found her and bathed her
blindingly, but she did not burn. The machine came down its headlight as
though it were an Earthly locomotive. She could make out no detail of
its shape.

Her cage exploded. She felt herself falling, still blinded. She heard
the chitter of untranslated moth protests. Something hard caught her arm
and hauled her up roughly.

"None but I shall do him die!" a metal voice boomed. Now she knew she
was hallucinating, for translators could not fly. "And thou willst join
him there."

"I know that!" she snapped hysterically. "At least give me some butter
for these little burns..."

And that was strange, for she was not the hysterical type. She wondered
when the end would come.

CHAPTER EIGHT
-------------

"Doctor, you need an assistant," Oyster said. He had retracted almost
entirely into his shell for an executive snooze, but the ubiquitous
translators picked up his watery mumble and spewed it forth full-volume
in English.

An assistant? Dillingham had already come to that conclusion. He sat
behind such a towering mound of paperwork that he could not properly
attend to his duties. In fact, he could not always even remember his
official title correctly, with so much else cluttering his mind. At any
moment he could be popped off to some simple assignment that invariably
turned out to be murderously complex in detail.

Actually, no paper was involved. But computerized busy-work and
multilingual red tape amounted to the same thing. Every tiny plastic
card, of the thousands on his desk, represented some problem of some
student that he had to rectify in some manner. Yes, he needed help on
the interminable details of his office. He had had no assistant since
leaving Earth, and he had never fully adapted to that lack. How he
wished he could take a mid-session snooze, as Oyster was doing now!

Oyster's assistant was Miss Tarantula, a marvel of arachnid efficiency.
In the office or the operatory, at the University or in the field, her
eight arms seemed to tie up every loose thread before it appeared. It
was because of her that Oyster's desk was clear, and Dillingham realized
jealously that if he had an assistant even half as competent his own
desk would soon be relieved of its burden. Yet she tended to make him
nervous, despite his efforts to repress his Earthly prejudices. She was
not really a man-sized spider...

Oyster poked an antenna out of his shell. "Set up a series of interviews
for a prospective assistant," he said to her. "Land-going, aesthetic,
competent, unattached females--"

"The first is waiting in the anteroom," Miss Tarantula said. That was
the way she was: anticipatory. "If Dr. Dillingham cares to interview her
now--"

"But there's no point in merely talking with her," Dillingham protested.
"I have field assignments as well as office routine. I have to know how
she functions in a variety of situations, particularly under stress.
If--"

"Naturally," Miss Tarantula said. "You are scheduled to make a
promotional tour of planet Hobgoblin today. She will accompany you on a
trial basis."

"But that's not a stress situation. A routine visit--"

"The director also wishes you to investigate certain complaints of a
sensitive nature."

So now it came out. Debating points with Miss Tarantula was futile. The
slightest twitch of her hairy front leg brought the web tight. And
Oyster himself was no slouch at making things routinely impossible; he
seemed to feel that this was good practice for the Directorship. Certain
complaints of a sensitive nature? That meant that half a mis-step could
result in a lynching!

Except for the Jann. The huge robot's meticulous guardianship was not
entirely welcome, but was a fact of Dillingham's new life. If there were
trouble on Hobgoblin...

Dillingham felt a headache coming on. "All right. Brief her and--"

"All taken care of, Doctor," Miss Tarantula said. Naturally. It was not
that she was helping Dillingham, for she was hardly concerned with
bipedal mammals; it was that her boss had made a directive and she was
being efficient.

The door opened. A grotesque mound of warty blubber slid into the
office. It drifted to rest before Dillingham, smelling of castor oil. A
black orifice gaped. "So pleased to meet you, Doctor D," the translator
said. I am Miss Porkfat, your trial basis assistant."

Aesthetic, competent, female...

Dillingham had no doubt that by the standards of her own species Miss
Porkfat was all of these. And he could not afford to question any of it,
lest he betray an un-University prejudice of taste.

"Very good, Miss P," he said. "Please arrange passage for three to
planet Hobgoblin, and notify the authorities there of our itinerary."

"Three, Doctor?" Her voice, audible just beneath the translation, was
pleasantly modulated, at least.

"Three. The Jann will be coming along."

She extruded a snail-like eye-stalk. The orb focused on the shining
robot. A quiver started there and travelled on down her body before it
dampened out. "Yes, Doctor." She oozed over to a private-line
translator, asked for interplanetary, and began making the arrangements.

Grade A, so far, Dillingham thought as Oyster woke and smiled benignly
from inside his shell. The Jann robots were supposed to have become
extinct several thousand years ago, but their terrible reputation
lingered on in galactic folklore. Miss Porkfat had excellent presence if
her only reaction to the sight of a functioning Jann was one
eyeball-quiver.

But still she reminded him of infected slug-meat.

The Hobgoblins were surly creatures: short, big-headed, flat-footed, and
ugly by humanoid standards. "What's that Jann doing here?" the customs
official demanded in a whine that even the translator caught. "We don't
allow sentient robots on our planet."

"He--has to travel with me," Dillingham said. It was complicated to
explain.

"He'll stay in the locker, then." The official gestured to the guards.
"Put this tin in the cooler."

The squat troopers advanced on the huge metal creature. Dillingham saw
trouble coming, but was powerless to circumvent it. The Jann was as
deadly a sentient as the galaxy had ever known, and had sworn to protect
Dillingham for fifty years. To do that, he had to stay close. Evidently
the inhabitants of this planet had little respect for past reputations,
or they would never have gone near the Jann.

The uniformed goblins took hold of either arm. They were barely able to
reach up that far, and looked like squat children beside a stern parent.
They tugged.

That was all. The Jann did not budge or take overt note of them.
Fortunately.

Dillingham and Miss Porkfat completed their business at customs and
left. The Jann followed, nonchalantly dragging along the two guards.
After a while they let go.

So much for protocol. Dillingham sighed with relief that the robot had
not lost his metal temper.

The Hobgoblin Office of Dentistry was imposing enough, externally. But
inside the fine large building were distressingly backward facilities.
This planet still used mechanical drills, X-rays, and needle-injected
anaesthetics. Ouch!

A harried goblin technician galloped up. "What do you want? We don't
allow visitors in here. Particularly not aliens."

"This is the representative from the University of Dentistry," Miss
Porkfat said dulcetly. The nearest translator was down the hall a
distance, so conversation was remote. "On a promotional tour. Your
office was informed."

"I don't need any off-world tub of lard to tell me what we've been
informed! Come back next week; we're busy now.

Miss Porkfat turned to Dillingham, her eye-stalk quivering again. "They
prefer that we return next week, Doctor D."

Something about this exchange rankled. "I heard, Miss P. But this was
cleared with the authorities before we arrived, and my schedule does not
permit a postponement." Some promotion!

"We're very sorry, but it will have to be today," she informed the
technician.

"Go fry your posterior!"

"I really think--"

"I'll handle it, Miss P," Dillingham said, his ire rising. He was not a
temperamental man, but his position did not allow him to tolerate very
much such insolence. Miss Porkfat was being gentle when she should have
been firm.

"You don't have confidence in me!" she cried, beginning to quiver all
over.

"It isn't that, Miss P--"

"Why should he, blubbertub?" the goblin demanded.

"I'm only trying to--" she began, turning pink. On her, this was
impressive.

"Of course," Dillingham said diplomatically. "But in this case--"

"Will you creeps get out of here?"

"NO!" Dillingham shouted at the ugly face.

Miss Porkfat began to dissolve. Literally.

"I think this position is unsuitable for you, Miss P," Dillingham said
with as much compassion as he was able to muster in the circumstance.
"If you wish to return to the University and seek an on-campus
placement--"

She sucked herself together somewhat. "Thank you, Doctor D."

"Good riddance, stinky," the goblin said, with as much compassion as he
could muster.

Dillingham walked haughtily by him, though privately he suspected that
the goblin was right. This was no job for an assistant who melted in the
face of conflict with abrasive personalities.

"Watch where you're going, stupid!" the goblin screamed. "I said no
visitors. I'll clobber you!"

That was his mistake. The Jann, silent until now, boomed into animation.
"None but I shall do him die--forty-nine years, five months, thirteen
days hence, Earthtime," it proclaimed. By the time the words ceased
reverberating, the goblin was gone, thoroughly cowed.

A non-native was waiting in the next alcove. Willowy, sweet-smelling,
with a cluster of slender blue tentacles and four soft purple eyes:
quite aesthetic, in a surrealistic way.

"Doctor Dillingham? I was sent by the University to assist you on a
trial basis. I am Miss Anemone."

So Miss Tarantula had anticipated his problem with Miss Porkfat! Such
comprehension was frightening.

"Very good," he said. Then, thinking ahead: This is a Jann. He's
travelling with us."

"I observed him. A handsome specimen. I hadn't been aware they made
robots of that calibre any more."

No loss of control there! Dillingham glanced down the hall. "And
approaching us is another native technician."

The Hobgoblin wore a badge of rank that distinguished him as an entity
of moderate authority. "No visitors permitted. Leave at once."

Miss Anemone braced him squarely. "This is the Assistant Director of the
University School of--"

"Don't waste my time with your ridiculous apologies," the goblin said
brusquely. "Just get out."

"If you will check our approved itinerary--"

"One side, sea-spook." The goblin shouldered by her, intent on
Dillingham. He did not get far. "Ouch!"

"Oh dear me, I'm so sorry," she said solicitously. "Did my spines hurt
you? I hope you will report to the infirmary right away. I certainly
wouldn't want the toxin to get into your system." She led the way on
down the hall while the goblin rushed off, rubbing his shoulder.

So far, so good. Miss Anemone was not unduly sensitive to abuse, or
helpless before it.

They arrived at the main demonstration room. Here the wonders of modern
Hobgoblin dentistry were displayed: quaint metal restorations, classic
plastic dentures, primitive colour X-ray photographs. Dillingham viewed
them politely, then approached the goblin in charge and began his
presentation. "I believe the University can enhance aspects of your
procedure--"

"Who asked it to?"

Dillingham was not free to mention the several tourists who had
complained to the University. That was the unofficial part of his tour.
The described symptoms had been vague and diverse, so that no consistent
pattern had developed, and no complainer had actually reported for a
University re-check. Thus there was no solid evidence that Hobgoblian
dentistry was at fault--just a statistical suspicion.

The kind of thing that had to be investigated unobtrusively, for planet
Hobgoblin was sensitive about alien criticism. Unlikely as that might
seem, from Dillingham's immediate experience.

"Perhaps a demonstration of technique--" he suggested.

"Oh, so the marvellous University desk jocky wishes to show the outworld
peons how to practise!"

Dillingham ignored this. "We might take a look at some of your problem
patients." The kind that complain to the University! he thought eagerly.
"Naturally, if I can demonstrate the advantages of University
training--"

"Training, schmaining! If we had your finances, we could afford a
multi-species dontic analyser too, and have instant diagnosis of
every--"

"You are correct in your implication that the analyser is one of our
more important diagnostic tools. But since it is far too expensive for
the average facility, we stress the raw ability of the individual
dentist using local equipment. It is the talent that remains after
the--"

But the goblin did not let him repeat the maxim he had learned so
arduously from Oyster. "You claim you can use my equipment--and do a
better job than I can?"

Since courtesy did not seem to accomplish much here, Dillingham yielded
to temptation and abandoned it. Unwisely. "Yes. And so could any
University graduate."

The goblin swelled with rage--then made an unholy smile, "You're on,
Doc."

He was, indeed, on. In half an hour Dillingham was ensconced in a model
unit set up on a stage in an amphitheatre. Miss Anemone had a desk a few
paces apart, and the Jann had a separate booth where he could watch for
Dillingham's safety without obstructing the view of the audience. Goblin
spectators, every one a qualified dentist, filled the hall.

This was more than Dillingham had bargained on, and he made a mental
note never again to speak precipitously. Meanwhile he had to follow
through. Somehow things always did become complicated. He was almost
getting used to it.

The prosthodontic genius from Galactic U will now demonstrate how to
handle a problem case," the chief dental goblin announced grandly. "Pay
close attention so you can learn how stupid you are."

Almost every grotesque little face mirrored the chief's resentment. No
doubt of it: University prestige was on the line. If he failed here,
there would be severe repercussions. He could, in fact, be eased out of
the very position he was in training for: the Directorship of the School
of Prosthodontics. The goblins were striking not at him, but at his
career--a blow the Jann could not foil. All because of one intemperate
remark.

The first patient mounted the stage: a quadrupedal and vaguely equine
creature with colourful bird-like plumage.

Miss Anemone intercepted it. "May I have your name and planet of origin,
please?"

"Horsefeathers of Clovenhoof," the creature neighed, showing tremendous
yellow teeth.

"Please describe your complaint."

"My teeth hurt."

There was a murmur of nasty appreciation from the audience. Hobgoblin's
finest practitioners were present, and Dillingham was sure that every
one of them had had this problem: the unspecific response. Miss Anemone,
of course, would not let it stand at that. She would question the
patient gently but firmly, clarifying and isolating his symptoms until
she had a fair notion of his real complaint. That was a major part of
the duties of a galactic dental assistant: to get at the facts before
the patient saw the dentist, thereby promoting office efficiency.

"Dr. Dillingham will see you now," she said.

There was a chorus of chuckles and a few hoots from the audience. They
knew she had goofed. Well, he could not afford to correct her now. That
would only make it worse. He would have to question the patient
himself--and make sure never to get into such a situation again with an
unfamiliar assistant.

It probably was not her fault. Some dentists preferred to handle
virtually everything themselves, and some assistants were trained to
honour this. Probably she would have questioned the patient further had
he asked her to do so. But Dillingham was far too busy to break in an
assistant in all the little ways that were sure to turn up. Miss Anemone
would not do.

Horsefeathers ambled over and bestrode the dental chair, opening his
long large mouth. His breath was not sweet.

"Can you localize the area of sensitivity?" Dillingham inquired,
beginning a routine check with the probe.

"Huh?"

"Where does it hurt?"

"They all hurt. It changes," Horsefeathers said.

Another appreciative goblin chuckle. Dillingham began to fear that they
had thrown him a chronic complainer--one who would object no matter how
well off his teeth were.

"I see you have had extensive prosthodontic restoration," Dillingham
observed. Indeed, the mouth was a mass of gold.

"Huh?"

"Lot of work done on you."

"Yes. All right here on Hobgoblin. Lousy job."

Silence from the gallery. Dillingham suppressed a smile. "On the
contrary. My visual inspection suggests that this work is quite
competent. However, I shall take X-rays to be sure there is no
underlying problem," He tapped a tooth, finding it firm. "Miss
Anemone--"

Another evil gallery chuckle. He looked up.

Miss Anemone was gone. A man-sized centipede occupied her desk. "I am
Miss Thousandlegs, your new assistant. Miss Anemone was called away,"

In the middle of a demonstration? This was getting too efficient! How
had Miss Tarantula known?

He also noted with surprise that the Jann was gone. The booth was empty
and there was no familiar glint of robot metal. But he was sure the huge
entity was in the vicinity--and would be, for the next forty-nine-plus
years.

All he said was: "Please take a full set of X-rays on this patient."

Miss Thousandlegs rippled over, elevated her forepart, and positioned
machine and plates. She was good at it, he had to admit, considering
that she had probably only had experience with such equipment in some
class on Antique Apparatus. In a moment she had the pictures.

He almost gaped. "Root canal therapy on every tooth!"

They were pretty far gone," Horsefeathers admitted.

They must have been. Root canal therapy was only called for when the
central nerve of the tooth became contaminated. Then this nerve had to
be removed, and silver or gutta-percha or some galactic equivalent
substituted, so that no further decay could occur. It was an expensive
process, but it generally saved the tooth. The tooth was insensitive
thereafter, of course. Without its nerve it could not feel heat or cold,
pressure or pain.

"I see no evidence of decay," Dillingham said, inspecting the X-rays
carefully.

"They still hurt," Horsefeathers said stoutly.

With no nerves at all, they hurt. Dillingham controlled a sigh, knowing
that the dentists of Hobgoblin were enjoying this hugely.

"Do you wish me to check the occlusion?" Miss Thousand-legs inquired.

Bless her! "By all means."

She brought a wax plate and had the patient bite down on it so that his
teeth imprinted the material in a horseshoe pattern, above and below.
She studied this. "Serious malocclusion, Doctor," she announced.

Dillingham could tell by the silence around him that the goblins had
forgotten to make this test--just as he himself had almost forgotten, in
his preoccupation with the impression he was making. Miss Thousandlegs
had saved him. It was beginning to look as though he had found his
assistant.

"This will not hurt," he told Horsefeathers as he prepared his rotary
unit. "In fact, I will not have to use any anaesthetic. I am merely
going to grind down some of the surfaces a little. To adjust the
occlusion, so that your teeth will meet properly when you bite."

"But it doesn't hurt where I bite! It hurts deep inside!"

"This is typical," Dillingham assured him. "You see, when the occlusion
is imperfect--when your teeth meet unevenly--unnatural stress is placed
on certain sections. Portions that are too high are driven back or
shoved sideways. While this effect is too small for you to notice,
ordinarily, it continues to irritate the periodontal membrane--the
lining surrounding the roots of your teeth--crushing and bruising it.
This lining is tough, for it is there to cushion the impact of constant
chewing--but under abnormal stress it eventually becomes inflamed. And
then you hurt--deep inside."

Horsefeathers gazed at him in wonder. "I never knew that!"

"Perhaps your dentist did not feel this was necessary for you to know,"
Dillingham said gently. "Many patients are not interested in such
technical details." Until their teeth hurt, he thought wryly

But the silence of the hall as he worked suggested that the point had
been made. It was always best to let the patient know as much as
feasible about his condition. An ignorant patient could be a difficult
one. Horsefeathers had not been an idle complainer; he had really had
pain, though the cause was subtle and slow to develop. His occlusion had
been adjusted properly at the time of the massive restoration,
Dillingham was certain. But with time and use it had changed marginally,
and the jaw had felt the stress. Horsefeathers probably consumed
enormous quantities of roughage and spent many hours a day chewing it,
so this accentuated the condition.

Dillingham had shown the dentists of Hobgoblin how to practise their
profession--using their own tools. The University reputation would
profit. There should be a number of student applications from Hobgoblin
next term.

He finished, and flushed the polished surfaces. "Expectorate, please."

"Huh?"

"Spit." The translator was being too literal, rendering a complex word
in English into a complex equivalent in Clovenhoofian. But he'd have to
tone down his language. "Now it will be a while before the inflammation
subsides," he warned Horsefeathers. "But there should be a steady
improvement now, until you feel no pain at all."

"It'll still hurt?" The patient looked dubious.

"It has to heal. When you--when you break a leg, you don't expect it to
be good as new the moment the vet sets it, do you?"

Horsefeathers thought about that. He looked at his leg. He smiled.
"Thank you, thank you, Doctor!" he exclaimed at last. "I'm so glad you
came here." He trotted off, limping a little before remembering that it
was his mouth that hurt.

Another patient mounted the stage. This was a native Hobgoblin.
Dillingham knew that meant trouble. He had counted his dental chickens
too soon!

"May I have your name, sir?" Miss Thousandlegs inquired.

"Go fly a kite!"

True to form, Dillingham thought. And how would she react--by melting or
stinging?

"How do you spell that, please?"

Dillingham liked her better all the time. Spelling via translator was
devious and suspect, but she had fielded the insult nicely.

"G o," the goblin spelled. "F L Y. The A is an initial for Algernon.
Last name is KIT E."

Dillingham reminded himself not to jump to conclusions.

"And what is your problem?" Miss Thousandlegs inquired.

"This tooth--it squishes. Sometimes."

"May I look at it?"

"You're not the dentist, bugface!"

"Nevertheless, I may be able to narrow down the possibilities and save
both you and Dr. Dillingham trouble."

Grudgingly he let her look. "Another restoration," she murmured. "Tooth
appears to be healthy."

"It's not healthy, stupid. It squishes. Sometimes."

"Could you show me?"

G. F. A. Kite bit down, almost nipping several of her hair-fine legs.
"Nope. It's not squishing right now. But it does. Sometimes."

"I'll take an X-ray," she said. She did.

"When do I see the damn dentist?"

"In just a moment. Let me check your occlusion first." She did. "You may
see him now."

She accompanied the patient to Dillingham's operatory. "X-ray shows
nothing but the tooth is mobile," she said. "The occlusion is slightly
off."

Kite made a face. "I heard that about Horsefeathers. But mine is only
one tooth and it doesn't hurt, it squishes. Sometimes."

"Nevertheless, occlusion seems to be indicated," Miss Thousandlegs said.
"Two plus two equals four. I'm sure if we adjust that, your symptom will
fade."

Dillingham agreed with her--but felt she was going too far. She was not
merely getting the facts, she was diagnosing and advising the
patient--and that was normally the dentist's prerogative. He should add
two and two and get four.

He checked the teeth. They were similar to human dentures, and most had
been restored metallically. All were solid, including the squisher,
except for that trace mobility his assistant had noted.

He inspected the X-ray photograph. She was correct there too. The only
shadows in the picture conformed to the restorative work present. It had
to be the occlusion, again.

He made the necessary adjustments. But one thing nagged him. The
occlusion was only marginally skew. Presuming that this condition had
developed only recently, the described symptom was too sharp, too
localized.

Two plus two might equal four--but so did one plus three. And the goblin
audience was suspiciously silent.

But what else...?

He took the probe and checked around the tooth again. It remained firm,
and the gum line was stable. He looked at the X-ray once more. The metal
of the restoration shadowed it, one projection extending along the
distal surface adjacent to the next tooth. No trouble there.

Two plus two...

Interesting coincidence that the Hobgoblin chief should send him two
occlusion problems in a row. He would have expected something more
devious.

He poked the tip of the probe between the two teeth, verifying that the
metal of each restoration touched there. The space was narrow; there was
no way he could reach it except by forcing the wire point down, causing
the patient momentary discomfort--

"Ouch!" Kite yelped, jumping.

The probe broke through into something soft.

"Equals four!" Dillingham cried. He had found it! A thin cavity just
under the metal, concealed from direct view by its location and the
overhanging restoration. Its shadow in the X-ray had been hidden by the
configuration of the metal itself. Truly, an invisible
deterioration--that squished. Sometimes.

Miss Thousandlegs had almost led him astray by her too-ready diagnosis.
Had he corrected the occlusion and sent the patient home, the decay
could have continued for months. By the time it received proper
attention, the tooth could have been lost. All because the primary
symptom seemed to match the wrong condition.

Two plus two did equal four. But that was not the whole story.

And the devilish goblin dental chief must have known it--setting the
University representative up with a valid occlusion case first. Then the
seeming occlusion case... what a trap!

"Anaesthetic," Dillingham said. He had had a close call.

Miss Thousandlegs brought the loaded needle. He injected the flinching
patient. Oops--it had been so long since he'd used anything this
primitive that he'd forgotten to apply a surface anaesthetic before
giving the shot, and his assistant hadn't reminded him. Not her fault;
she just wasn't familiar with his procedures, his little lapses.

He readied the drill. "Vacuum," he said.

Miss Thousandlegs applied the vacuum, sucking the saliva and moisture
left from the water-cooled drill.

"Other side," he murmured, as her instrument obstructed his view. He
began cutting away the overhang of the tooth.

He finished and removed the drill. "Mallet," he said, picking up the
chisel. She held it up, but his hand missed contact. The mallet bounced
off his fingers and fell to the floor. The goblins guffawed.

Dillingham's ears were burning. Again--not her fault, he reminded
himself. She just wasn't adjusted to his gestures. But it was
inconvenient and embarrassing, particularly on stage.

He knocked off the metal crown, exposing the decay. He fished for the
gold chunk before the patient could choke on it--and banged into one of
his assistant's insect-like arms. She had been reaching for it also.

Dillingham stopped and counted to ten mentally. Miss Thousandlegs was
competent and co-operative--but it just wasn't working out. He could not
operate effectively with her.

"Miss--" he started. And blinked. Miss Thousandlegs was gone. She had
been replaced by a humanoid biped.

He was tired of this long-distance sleight-of-hand. Miss Tarantula might
enjoy tugging on interplanetary threads and changing his assistants in
mid-operation, but he did not. "Vacuum," he said abruptly, taking up the
drill again.

Assistant number four, the biped, applied the vacuum. Her arms
terminated in quintuple, jointed digits that pinched together to hold
the tube. He had seen more effective appendages for this work, but at
least she did not get in his way or obstruct his vision.

He finished his excavation. "Hydrocolloid," he snapped. This assistant
would have to stand on her own couple of feet; he was out of patience.

She already had the metal form and cold water ready for the hydrocolloid
impression. He made the cast without difficulty, and she took it away.
He put a temporary covering over the tooth.

"A new restoration will have to be made," he told Kite. "I have prepared
the tooth and taken an impression, but it will be some time before the
restoration is ready. Your local prosthodontists are perfectly capable
of doing it, and I commend you to their services. You were quite correct
about your problem, and fortunately we have diagnosed it in time to save
the tooth."

"Doctor," the new assistant said.

"What?" He was tired, and there was something strange about the way she
spoke.

"Will you check the other restorations now?"

"The other--" He paused. "You're right! A good restoration does not go
wrong without cause. I'll have to have a look." It was a dismal
prospect, but he could not risk the same kind of oversight the local
dentists had made.

He hammered off the adjacent cap. It came away easily--too easily. He
scraped at the exposed cement. "Soft," he muttered. "No wonder there was
trouble."

The goblin chief was about to be snared in his own prosthodontic trap.

The assistant took the gold cap and cleaned out the debris. Dillingham
hammered at the next restoration. This one was stiffer, but finally came
off. The binding cement was similarly soft. "Brother!" he muttered.
"They must all be defective. The cement is deteriorating. Real trouble
coming up."

"Now just a moment," a voice objected. It was the chief dentist of
Hobgoblin. "I did that work myself. There is nothing wrong with it!"

Dillingham glanced at him tiredly. So this was a personal matter with
the goblin now. An excellent opportunity to embarrass the chief before
his entire profession, to torpedo his planetary prestige.

He was tempted. The chief had tried to trick him, and had almost
succeeded, and the audience had been thirsty for his blood right along.
He could get even with the whole species of Hobgoblin and make its
dentistry the laughing stock of the galaxy.

He saw that the Jann was back in his booth. That made it safe: he could
tell off the planet with impunity, for the huge robot would vaporize
anyone who dared attack. There would be blood and carnage and flame--

Dillingham shook himself. What was he thinking of! He was here to make
friends for the university, not to incite riot. He really needed an
assistant, if his nerves were this tight. Someone to cool him off...

"The work is excellent," he said. "I could not do better myself. The
cement is defective. Give it time and every restoration will come loose.
This entire mouth will have to be re-done. And every case where you used
this type of cement. They are all suspect."

The goblin dentist looked. He pried off another cap and saw the
condition of the underlying cement. He sagged. "You are right, Doctor.
It was a new variety--not time-tested, but with the highest
recommendations. We used it on our special patients--tourists, visitors,
persons of note--"

"Not your fault," Dillingham said graciously, suddenly seeing the answer
to those vague off-planet complaints. That same highly-touted new cement
had been used on all of them! "Perhaps there is some quality of the
local environment that affects the cement as it is being applied. The
University will be happy to run tests for you. It's a shame to have work
this good undermined by something this small."

"Doctor," the goblin chief said with surprising politeness, "you have
made your point. University training is beneficial. We shall act
accordingly."

Somehow this did not seem to be the proper time to confess that he had
almost missed the key cavity--or that only the timely reminder by his
bipedal assistant had prompted him to perform the routine check that had
led to the major discovery.

His assistant--she had been perfect! She had done everything just right
without intruding. This was the one he wanted to keep.

"What is your name and planet?" he asked her as he finished his
preparations on the patient.

"Miss Galland--Earth," she said.

"Very good, Miss Galland of Earth. I want you to--" He stopped. He had
suddenly realized what was strange about her voice. She wasn't speaking
through the translator! "Earth?"

"Yes, Doctor," she said as she cleaned up the patient's ugly face.

Dillingham straightened up and looked directly at her for the first
time. She was a young, aesthetic, female human being.

"Judy!" he exclaimed, amazed. "Judy Galland--my old assistant!"

"I thought you'd never notice, Doctor," she said, smiling.

"What are you doing here?"

"Why, I'm assisting you. I thought you knew."

"I mean, here in the galaxy! I left you on Earth, back when--"

She smiled again, very prettily. "That's a long story, Doctor. Let's
just say that I needed a position, and there was an opening. After that
it got complicated. Deep space, and all that. Frankly, your robot
rescued me from an unfortunate situation."

He saw now that there were some ugly marks on her arms, as though she
had been burned, and she looked as though she had not slept in days.
"Unfortunate situation" could mean almost anything, short of an
execution. She was not the expressive type. But she certainly was
competent, and he was extraordinarily glad to have her here.

"The Jann brought you?" he asked, picking up the thread. "But he was
supposed to be protecting me! I thought Miss Taran--"

"None but I shall do thee die!" the Jann boomed from his booth,
startling them both and causing a ripple of dismay to pass through the
massed goblins. "But thy skein will be too brief without a proper
assistant. I perceived thou couldst not endure even forty years in thy
solitary condition, and I wouldst not have age and wear compromise the
letter of mine oath."

Judy guided the patient out of the chair. "So you see, Doctor, two plus
two--"

"Equals four!" He gripped her by the arm. "Come on--let's get out of
here before Miss Tarantula sends Number Five. I'll settle for Four."

"And a married man is far more likely to live to ninety-two," the Jann
observed, rising grandly from the booth. "Had I but my Janni with me..."

Fortunately Dr. Dillingham was not listening. But the goblin audience
was, and catcalls resounded.

About the author
----------------

Piers Anthony's five books--Chthon, Sos the Rope, Omnivore, Macroscope
and Prostho Plus--have established him as a writer of great talent, on a
par with the best of the new young generation of sf novelists. In an
interview with the Washington Post, Arthur C. Clarke equated him with
Delany and Algis Budrys. From the very first Mr. Anthony has been
admired for his originality and inventiveness in both his serious sf
tales and in his entertaining satirical novels.

SPHERE BOOKS LIMITED

30/32 Gray's Inn Road, London WC1X 8JL

First published in Great Britain by Victor Gollancz Ltd 1971

Copyright  Piers A. D. Jacob 1971 First Sphere Books edition 1974

Printed in Great Britain by Hazell Watson & Viney Ltd. Aylesbury, Bucks

ISBN 0 7221 1175 4

Also by Piers Anthony and available from Sphere Books MACROSCOPE

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ordered from the following address:

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