Fur Ball

Part Eight

by 
Lorie Schultz

           The trip to the morgue, in back of the sick bay, was accomplished swiftly.  That was partly because dead bodies tended to give Smith the creeps though he refused to admit it.  He did one of the fastest post mortems on record, using the Robot’s memory banks as a recording device.  Bottling up his specimens, he hastily made his way back to the ship.  By then the commotion in the landing bay had died out, as most of the aliens had gone back to their own ships.  Even the lights in the Jupiter 2 were off.  

            Once again slides rested in staining trays.  Too wired to nap lest he miss the cut off time to remove the slides, Smith went for a brief walk.  If nothing else he hoped to bring order to his jumbled speculations.  Smith stopped before one square porthole and looked across the crowded yet silent bay toward the ship he called “home”.

            On board that very ship, in the dark, West, John and Maureen were all staring out the view port.  They saw Smith’s silhouette, far off but still distinct.

            “How is he doing, do you suppose?” Maureen asked quietly, her voice tinged with concern.

            “There has been a lot of running back and forth today,” John supplied.  “I’m hoping it was because he was onto something.”

            “He’s gotta be scamming them,” West snorted.  In their three years together he hadn’t seen Smith do much honest doctoring, at least not after their initial first day out in space.  He’d come to doubt that Smith was actually a doctor of medicine at all, and he wondered why, if that was true, Smith would allow himself to get embroiled in this problem.

            “I hate to admit this, Don, but I suspect that maybe, just maybe, he may be what he said he was after all.”

            “Yeah, well, if that’s true, he wouldn’t be wasting his time standing by a window just staring out it when there is nothing to see.”

            As John turned back to the view port, he noted the Smith’s silhouette had disappeared.

******

            The new slides showed exactly what Smith had expected to find — more of the bacteria was in the intestinal tracts of the infected aliens.  His hunches had paid off.  He was now fairly positive that he’d discovered the causative agent.  But two problems remained.  One was how did it spread, and the other was how did one kill off the bacteria before said “terms” killed off more patients?

            Without knowledge of the various species, he didn’t know where to begin.  Time seemed to drag at a snails’ pace.  He stared out the artificially darkened bay and the looking dark portal.  

            “Ah, my stalwart servant, what to do now.  That is the question before us.”  He gently patted the Robot’s torso.

            “Go back to square one?  Try to access the ships’ data base?”

            “I wish there were a more expeditious solution to this dilemma,” Smith sighed heavily.  “Why are some beings so ill and others not?”

            “You said it yourself — some bacteria affects beings differently.”

            Smith shook his head.  “Yes, but if a dangerous strain of bacteria or a toxin winds up in the circulatory system of a human, then you can bet that human is going to wind up seriously ill if not dead.  And bacteria can gain access into the body in a variety of ways that alien in the bedroom isn’t walking so I don’t know how he or any of the others got it.  One thing the crew leader told me is that not all visitors of his particular species are ill despite their having had contact with the tribbles.  So what is the connection?”

            Lightly, he tapped his forehead, as if the motion would pound some sense into his stressed mind.  “I feel as if the answer is just before me, but I can’t seem to reach out and grasp it.  It’s so frustrating.”

            Outside, several of the exterminators left the bay to check on bringing supplies back inside.  Unnoticed by them a small, almost invisible creature drifted past the white‑coated being and began a methodical search of each ship.  When it entered the ship of the purple‑eyed N’las, it finally spotted its quarry.  On gossamer tendrils it piloted its way along the ceiling above the Robot.

            Silently it snuck up on the unwary doctor, who dozed fitfully in his chair.  The alien lightly touched the skin around the head and neck, and then joined with the sleepy consciousness of the human in a caress that soothed.  Still, Smith awoke with a start.  His mind careened around the room, sensing the presence of another mind, knowing it was familiar but unexpected just the same.  Finally, with the aliens’ help, he calmed down.

            But the noise alerted the Robot, who came to attention with his familiar loud cautionary phrase.  “Warning.  Warning.  Intruder present.”

            “Hush, you doddering dunce.  This intruder is not hostile.  I repeat, not hostile.  Which reminds me, your vigilance was sorely lacking just now.”

            Disappointed at both the rebuke and his failure to detect danger, the Robot returned to a more watchful position near the door.

            Greetings once again, Ceph, Smith said, after his thought grew organized.

            Greetings, Zachary, the alien whispered kindly.  I have heard what was going on here and around the Gaelorian Gem.  I was worried about you and came to see if you are all right.  How is it that you are here and not with your friends?

            Eyes still closed, because he couldn’t see the floating jellyfish overhead anyway, Smith replied, I am trying to figure out what is killing these people.

            Any success?

            Limited, Smith admitted.  I believe I have located the causative agent — and in a split second he was able to convey his findings — but lack other facts, such as what mode of transmission.  Not all of the N’las, for instance, are ill.

            I understand.  I’ve heard the Az’mit and the Coragnanci are ill, but only some.  Yes, it is strange.

            Smith began to pace, and sensed some distress from Ceph for all the repetitious movement.  Sorry.  I’m getting worked up.

            For good reason, the aliens conceded graciously.  There was a moment of completely silent, thought the two remained completely linked.

            “I wish I could help that N’las,” Smith muttered, his voice laden with anxiety.  “And I wish I could find out what he did that was so different from the other creatures on board this vessel.”

            There might be a way, Ceph told him almost immediately.  Even as the thoughts were forming in its mind, Ceph allowed the doctor to see its ideas.

            Is that possible?  Smith asked curiously ... hopefully.

            Of course.  Provided I can get my pod brother to assist me.  He thinks what we are doing is pretty revolting.  There was humor in Ceph’s tone, and Smith found himself laughing aloud.

            Slowly the Robot rolled back into view, wondering what the doctor was laughing at since he’d heard nothing of the conversation.  With a back‑handed dismissive gesture, Smith ordered him back to his post.  Circuits sighing, the Robot did as he was commanded.

 ******

            After Smith put gloves, spare masks and other equipment into his medical bag, the duo, human and alien, wandered down the gangway and walked toward the guard at the portal. The being jumped to instant alertness, not due to his being caught napping but because of the strange sigh of the human wearing a jellyfish halo.  Nevertheless he was good at his job.  “Halt!  You know you are not permitted to leave without the appropriate authorization.”

            “Fine.  Rouse up your fearless leader and tell him I wish to depart — temporarily, of course — from this area.”

            “I will not wake him without knowing why you wish to leave.”

            “I require further information about the other sick N’las on this ship, and I cannot obtain it from here.”

            “Very well.  Wait one moment.”

            The alien clasped a tiny cylinder in his huge paw, and depressed a small button on its smooth shaft.

            “WHAT?”  Any angry chittering sound exploded from the tiny rod.

            “The human physician wishes to leave. But there is something else you should know.  He’s wearing a ‘floater’ from the Zastuven System.”

            “Wearing a cloud-worlder?” The pitch of the voice grew shrill.  “Where?”

            “Uh, on his head.”

            “Be right there!”  And there was an audible click as the crew chief disconnected.

            Seconds later the leader approached, minus his robe.  His chitinous carapace flashed alternating bands of flaming orange and yellow.  Smith noted that he hadn’t forgotten the protective mask.

            “What’s all this abou...”  The alien slid to a skittering half.  “Oh, I see.  New looks for you, doctor?”

            Smith forced a hearty laugh.  “Indeed.  I shall create a new fashion rage.”  The he turned deadly serious.  “I need to leave.  Now.”

            The leader ignored him and pointed at Ceph.  “How did that ‘floater’ get here?  There were none of his kind in here before.  Besides, the shuttle vehicle that brought them here left soon after arrival.”

            “You,” he said, addressing the multi‑tendrilled creature, “should not be in this wing.  You have facilities and should have remained there per orders given to all visitors and guests.  You have broke quarantine.”

            Smith felt Ceph sigh with both humor and frustration.  You ‘talkers’ always forget that we can’t communicate without special devices...which I left in my dwelling.

            With this method of interaction, Smith’s thoughts were instantaneously transmitted back to the floating alien.  Then how are you able to understand him now?

            Again that gentle laughter.  You forget, Zachary.  What you know I know.

            Indeed.  Well, as we say on Earth, ‘Time to blow this popcorn stand.’

            The alien transmitted confusion.  What’s popcorn—?

            ‑‑Never mind.  It just means, let’s depart immediately.

            Agreed.

            The entire interaction between the Zastuven “floater” and human had taken less than a heartbeat.  The crew leader was still bobbing and waving before them in agitation.

            Deciding to be the mouthpiece for both of them, Smith stated, “He is my friend and came out of concern for my health and safety.  He apologizes for any breach in protocol.  However, his timing was quite expeditious because he has given me an idea on how we might solve this medical problem.”

            The crew chief crossed his two front pincers in a very human fashion.

            “I don’t know if I should allow you to exit from here.  The Galactic Organization for Disease Control has radioed that they will arrive in less than one standard day.”

            What took so long? Smith wondered, mildly piqued.  His knowledge of the Galaxy and its operations was sorely limited, but just the same he would have expected a faster response time.

            Ceph decided to answer himself.  The FODC’s central headquarters is located about 4 standard days from here. From your mind I can translate that out to about 3.2 of your normal days.  Since the GODC is located in a distant spiral arm of this galaxy, it takes a while to get to this region.  Secondly, they give primary jurisdiction of contagion control to individual worlds.  If that world is unable to provide a solution on its own, then and only then does the GODC step in? With all the red tape, as you humans say, it’s a miracle they are coming this quickly.  And that is only because there is no ship’s doctor to make progress reports to them.

            Smith gave a mental snort of derision.  That means it’s still up to us to try to accomplish something.  In one day’s time more of those infected could die.  And many more could become infected by whatever the transmission agent is.

            He saw the crew leader still waiting for a reaction.

            “Lives may depend on our quick action,” Smith stated quietly.  “We don’t have time to waste.”

            The alien gurgled deep in its throat.  “Very well, but make sure you stay out of the quarters of the healthy visitors.”

            “Agreed.”  For now, he thought.

            The huge portal doors hadn’t been more than one‑quarter parted before Smith and Ceph dashed through.  They made their way to the special‑needs sector of the vessel.  This was the area where airborne or water dwelling creatures resided.

            They stopped outside a heavy round door.  Ceph began to unwind his graceful tentacles. Stay here.  The atmosphere inside would make you sick.  As soon as I discuss matters with my pod brother I will return.

            One long gossamer tendril floated past a lit panel beside the door and it opened gradually.  Inside Smith noticed another, similar door in back of the tiny room, a design similar to that on the Jupiter 2, serving to split one environment from another.

            Leaning against a wall, arms crossed, Smith spent his idle time trying to collate all the available information he had already garnered through research.  And he sent up a silent prayer that their joint efforts would yield positive results.

            About ten standard minutes later the portal opened.  Smith turned expectantly.  Two creatures floated side by side in the little antechamber.  He wouldn’t have bet money on which one was his friend.  The answer was quickly answered, however, when one of the pair reached out its long tendrils, attached them to his skin, and nearly enveloped the crown of his head.

            Ceph’s mental emanations seemed somewhat vexed.   My pod brother has agreed, quite reluctantly, I might add.  Touching another being in such an intimate manner is something out kind tends to avoid, though I admit I don’t know why.  I have found our contact to be quite interesting and rewarding.

            As have I, Smith acknowledged sincerely.  I suspect the answer is because such contact reveals both the noble and hideous thoughts most beings possess.  I certainly would not desire to be linked, for instance, with a mass murderer.

            I suppose you are right, Ceph sighed.  I confess it wasn’t easy “linking” up with you the first time either.  Your memories are flooded with intense anguish and difficult choices.  Had I not been in danger of being crushed to the ground, I would have immediately broken our contact.

            I consider myself fortunate that you did not.

            I too!  But come, let me introduce you to my pod brother.  Saying that, Ceph stretched out his nearly translucent tendrils in a graceful arch and entwined them with the other “floated”.  Immediately upon contact, Smith’s mind was bombarded with many familiar sights of Ceph’s home world, plus a wide assortment of emotions.  Revulsion was foremost, but not the kind of disgust born of superiority.  Smith felt the creature’s fear zigzag through its empathic pictures.

            Once again, he felt his body awash in endorphins.  The conscious part of his mind realized that Ceph was trying to create an artificial barrier, to suppress Smith’s painful memories and thereby shield the other alien somewhat.

            It worked.  The other “Zastuven” creature stopped moving multi tentacled extremities.  Agitation seemed to drain out of it.  Ceph cut the contact after giving some brief directions.  Then the alien guided Smith and his pod brother to another section of the vessel.

            Outside one door marked with a quarantine warning, they stopped and Ceph swiped at a red panel.  A load moan came out of some invisible speaker.  At Ceph’s prompting, Smith stated — with more professionalism that he felt — “I am Dr. Zachary Smith.  And I wish to come in and do a quick examination.  I request permission to enter.”

            Another moan was the only response he got.  Shrugged with one shoulder, and feeling a mental surge of reassurance from Ceph, he waved one hand over the white panel. The door responded instantly.  Smith entered cautiously, his nostrils assailed by a horrible stench.

            Across the ornate room, he saw a large alien prostrate on the bed.  Like the N’las back in the landing bay, this creature was rotund, covered in thick, short fur, though blue in color this time.  Its eyes, all three of them, were a piercing orange.  Instead of a duck’s bill, this creature had a banded, hooked beak.  It moaned again, piteously and clutched its protruding stomach.

            Smith noticed that the alien had been “ill” repeatedly. He scooped out one surgical mask he had stuffed into his medical bag and donned it quickly.  In addition, he put on surgical gloves.  He tucked his spare sets back into his bag.

            A brief physical exam followed.  He discovered the same ridiculously high temperature, the rapid respiration, and slow pulse rate.  Smith noted that the creature also had four naked ear canals and appeared to be bipedal in design.

            “Not N’Las,” he observed aloud.

            No, Bnlake‑Rulan, Ceph informed him.

            But similar to N’las, Smith persisted.

            Similar.  Same general sector in space.  More hospitable planets than your own arm of the galaxy.  Also, the N’Las and Bnlak‑Rulan and others in that sector have been in space for thousands of standard years.

            Smith grunted, but stored the information for possible use.

            Okay, I’m ready.  Try to link up with him or her or whatever it is. Also, please tell your pod brother to try to locate only those memories connected with what this fellow was doing just prior to becoming ill. The two “floaters” once more looped tendrils.  The pod brother stretched toward the head of the Bnlak-Rulan.  Smith knew the connection was achieved by the sudden influx of memories, thoughts clearly not belonging to his new assistants.  He moaned as his soul cringed from the shocking history of this creature, a history most definitely more ugly than his own.  Cold, cruel, soulless, nearly devoid of positive emotions, the Bnlak-Rulan was in short ... detestable.

            Imagery was flashing around so fast that Smith felt a headache beginning to pound all over his skull.  Slow down! his mind screamed, as a hiss escaped his clenched teeth. Too much...too much!

            Ceph, as mediator, struggled valiantly to sort and channel images.  His tendrils waved wildly from distress. The barrage of negative imagery lashing out of the Bnlak-Rulan’s mind nearly crippled all three of them.

            Concentrate! Ceph pleaded with his pod brother.  Don’t give up; lives depend on our success.

            Smith heard it and tried to add his own silent plea.  His stomach was rebelling at the waves of pain and dizziness.  He nearly dropped to his knees, and tried to take a few deep, cleansing breaths.  As he did so, he felt a change in the pattern of images.  The pod brother was adjusting.  Adapting.  And sorting.

            Soon Smith was receiving images of the hours spent prior to the onset of the illness. Gambling (and cheating) at the casino, imbibing a variety of intoxicating beverages, gorging itself on plentiful banquets, and tryst with another Bnlak-Rulan in a different room.

            Once the pod brother was able to get a good hold on limiting the memories and putting them in coherent order, Smith paid close attention.

            Suddenly an image flashed in his mind.  The room they were in!  And piles of tribbles all around.  The Bnlak-Rulan was clearly annoyed, and was hurling the creatures out into the hallway or against the wall.  Finally in sheer rage it flipped one toward the ceiling.  As it fell it disappeared from sight.

            At first Smith couldn’t make out what he was “seeing”, and then it dawned on him.  The tribble had vanished...because it was sliding down the gullet of this repulsive creature.  He heard and felt the Bnlak-Rulan’s surprised pleasure at the taste.  Soon, more of the tribbles were being shovelled into its beaked maw.

            They ate the tribbles! Smith’s mind gasped, even though he knew Ceph was receiving the exact same images.  Disgusting!  I think I’m going to be sick!

            Later!  If I can tolerate it, so can you! Ceph replied matter‑of‑factly.  And now you have the answer to one question.

            Smith nodded.  It would appear that this Bnlak-Rulan ate an infected tribble.  And that is how the disease probably spread to him.  But we must find out if the same is true of the others who are sick.

            Ceph’s pod brother immediately broke contact.  It was clear he wanted nothing further to do with the Bnlak-Rulan.  

            The trio hastily withdrew from the room. They marched from dwelling place to dwelling place.  Few had the warning markers but scattered about they found other species who were sick.  And after probing their thoughts, they found that all had snacked on the little purring fur balls just prior to falling ill.  A few who were still somewhat alert admitted that they’d dined on the little creatures.

            Smith was rejoicing.  He’d found a pattern.  The tribbles had picked up the disease, and those who ate the tribbles had also picked up the disease.  Elated, he fairly danced back to the landing bay to record his notes.  But not before thanking Ceph’s pod brother for his sacrifice of time and comfort.  The alien’s internal organs seemed to brighten in a host of color.

            My pod brother is pleased at your courtesy, Ceph told him, infusing the doctor with a rush of warmth and gratitude.

 ******

            The facts on this medical malady were being compiled in the laboratory when the crew chief scuttled down the cramped hallway.  “Bad news, human. Several of the Bnlak are not ill.  And some of the sick never ate any tribbles.  That puts a crimp in your theory, does it not?”

            “Did the healthy Bnlak eat any tribbles?”

            “One admitted to tasting one when he first found it wandering in his room. But he didn’t care for the flesh.  However, he shows no sign of illness.”

            Sinking back into a couch in the lounge area, Smith brought the printouts of his research.  That did put a crimp in his theory, he was forced to admit.  Getting up after the crew leader had left, he paced around the room.

            Ceph had long since let go and was floating, stationary, in one corner, his tendrils looped around a cabinet knob for stability.  Smith looked up at him, and said forlornly, “Well, my friend, back to the drawing board.”

            The Robot, still standing guard for Smith’s protection, moved over to him.  “Maybe you follow your hunches,” he suggested.  “Your in‑Doctors’ intuition seems to have been leading you down the right course all along.  I suggest you relax, catch a brief nap, and you’ll be more clear‑headed when you awake.”

            Staring at the Robot, Smith realized he’d gone about 24 hours without sleep, like in his Residency years, and he had barely noticed it.  Exhaling loudly through pursed lips, he wandered back to the couch.  Picking up the pile of papers and placing them on the floor nearby, he stretched out on the soft sofa and closed his eyes.  He never even felt himself drift off.

            Snoring loudly, the Doctor awoke with a start, glanced at his chronometer and saw that only 40 minutes had passed.  Still groggy, he got up, rubbed his smarting, bloodshot blue eyes, and stared at the pile of papers on the floor.  Lots of information, he told himself, yet I’m missing something. But what?

            He reviewed the facts.  The tribbles clearly carried a bacteria.  It evidently killed them by destroying the intestinal lining and entering the blood stream where it did further damage to the other organs.  When ingested, that tainted flesh was thereby infecting other alien species.  But why some and not others?  Apparently some of the “tribble eaters”, even if very small in number, hadn’t become ill.  And some “non‑eaters” had become ill.

            “OF COURSE!” he yelled suddenly, scaring both Ceph and the Robot.  “The tribbles aren’t the problem. They’re just a hose, another victim.  Not the mode of transmission...at least not the initial one.”

            “What do you mean?” the Robot inquired, moving closer.  His cybernetic memory storage systems were intrigued by what he was hoping to learn.

            Smith put two hands on the Robot’s torso and spun him around with an absurd little chuckle.  “We’ve been overlooking the most important fact.  Where did the tribbles pick up the disease?  Did the trader have it on his ship, and did he give Penny a sick animal?  Or did they somehow pick it up while on board this vessel?  Listen, my roly-poly recorder  — those blasted beasts were apparently getting all over the ship.  What if they got into something that was tainted and then spread the disease?”

            “That wouldn’t explain those who didn’t ingest the tribbles,” the Robot replied.

            “No, it doesn’t.  But if that tainted source was also consumed by other aliens then they too would fall ill without ever having eaten the tribbles.”

            “Makes sense to me,” the Robot answered.  “But how do we limit the search for food types?  I overheard that the medical team should be here in another half day or so. That doesn’t give you much time to research food sources before they take over.  And after having dealt with aliens as much as we have, it’s fairly certain they won’t listen to your ideas.”

            Smith looked about ready to make an acerbic comment concerning the Robot’s opinions, then, for once, thought better of it.  This was one ally he might need later, he knew.  He reached up one hand to brush against Ceph’s free‑floating tendrils.  The contact, though not as intense as normal, was enough to convey his suspicions to his partner.

            Without warning, a loud rumbling from his mid‑section reminded him that he was both starved and thirsty.  He ordered the Robot to bring him something to assuage his hunger and thirst, then sat down to wait for his meal.  It wasn’t long in coming.  The fare was the same simple grain and vegetable dish all the humans had eaten since being in quarantine.

            At first he eyed it with some trepidation, but realized he’d already be sick if the bacteria was dangerous to his system.  So, ravenously, he wolfed down the meal, totally forgetting his manners but not caring anyway.  Then he downed the tall, cold glass of water in about five deep gulps.

            “Ahhh, much better,” he purred with contentment.  He leaned back for a moment, allowing the meal to settle.  He stared at the crystal goblet as the overhead lights sent prismatic threads of light out of its facets onto the white table surface.  The kaleidoscope of colors served to mesmerize him for a few restful moments.  Then he looked back at the goblet and saw a single drop of water burping its way slowly down the rounded surface.

            Instantly he jumped up, knocking over the chair.  “It may not be the food, Robot!” he called out to the waiting mechanical man.  “The bacteria could easily be in the water.  Oh, I’m so foolish!  I answered my questions early on and never realize it.”  He paused to smack his forehead with an open hand.  “The water!  Like my example of E. Coli.”

            After calling for water samples to be collected, he rejoined with Ceph.  

            Excellent!  You may be right.  But that still doesn’t tell me why this isn’t an “epidemic”, as your people call it.

            Because some forms of bacteria can live quite contentedly in the human gut, existing in a mutually beneficial symbiotic relationship.  Most likely this bacteria is not harmful to the intestinal tracts of some species, but is deleterious to the digestive tracts of other species.

            Now, it still may be found in the food, Smith continued, but the water would surely be the easiest place to start.

            True, Ceph agreed. How will you analyse it?

            The Jupiter 2 has what I require for something that simple.  I only need to isolate the bacteria from the biopsy samples then run a correlation study against the water samples.  If there is a match, we know we’ve found our culprit.

            Then his thoughts sobered.  The same can be done with culturing food specimens, but it could take much longer to find matches.  “No rest for the weary,” he groaned aloud.  He spoke to the crew chief about obtaining a water sample, which showed up about 30 seconds later from the main supply pipe outlet.

            “Was the container sterile?” he asked, as he swished the clear, harmless looking water before his eyes.

            The alien gave him a long, piercing look.  Its multiple antennae jerked in irritation, but it left without comment and came back after approximately ten minutes had passed with another container.

            “Sterile. Sealed and marked,” the crustacean grumbled in a flat, atonal voice.

            Smith ignored its ire.  “Thank you.  I shall inform you of the results as soon as I’ve processed them.”  Turning, he waved on the Robot.  “Come along, you doddering dodo; we have work to do.”  Before he’d moved two feet Ceph latched onto him and went along for the ride.

            Not only did the Doctor ignore the ire of the crew chief, he also ignored the curious stares of the Robinson party.  It had always been his intention to hide his expertise in order to avoid being pestered all day long for every little hangnail or paper cut.  But preoccupation with his task led him to forget everything except the job before him.

            Maureen, John, Don and the children watched him process the samples at a feverish pace, as if he were racing some invisible clock. The printouts began flowing out in white ribbons.  As soon as the humming of the printer ceased, he wadded the papers up in both fists and dashed back out again, white streamers flying out behind him.  The cephalopod looked as it were hanging on for dear life, but never did let go.

            “That was interesting,” Don quipped sarcastically.

            “I don’t know, Don; I kind of liked seeing him do all that useful stuff,” Will commented with a grin.  “Now I know I won’t need to both Mom every time I cut myself.”

            Had Smith been within earshot he surely would have resigned from “active duty” and filed for sick leave for the rest of his voyage in space.  By that point, however, he was nearly back at the N’las’ lounge.

            The crew chief was none too happy to see him.  “Your patient is nearly dead.  I hope your medical equipment yielded some decent results.”

            Smith stared into the portal of his temporary quarters, thinking about the poor soul inside.  Even if this N’las had been as bad as the Bnlak-Rulan, he still mourned the life that would soon pass from this plane of existence.  Distractedly, he murmured, “I’m going to review the data now.”  He turned look straight at the stalk‑like eyes.  “How long before the GODC gets here?”

            “Not for a while yet.  Their cruiser had a drive malfunction.”

            “Too bad.  I’d hoped they would have antibiotics to kill the bacteria.”

            “There’s still hope that it’ll be fixed quickly.  If such is the case, they may be here a bit after midday meal.”

            “I surely hope so,” was Smith’s tired reply.  He realized he’d managed well so far, but there was still more to do.

            With his two companions nearby, Smith settled in to peruse the reports.  It didn’t take long to see that his assumptions were correct.  The water had been contaminated with countless bacterium.  There were, according to the results, the same species in both the dead aliens and in the water supply, which conclusively stated that the water was the method of transmission, at least to the tribbles.  From there, the aliens had either drank the contaminated water or eaten some ailing tribbles.

            “And,” Smith explained further, “those aliens who weren’t sick either had a tolerance for the bacteria as we humans do or they weren’t drinking the water at all.  They may have preferred another beverage during their stay and luckily for them abstained from imbibing the tainted water.”

            “That doesn’t explain how the bacteria got into the water in the first place,” the Robot reminded him.  “If it had been there a long time, then obviously the illness would have shown up sooner.”

            “No, you are probably correct,” Smith acknowledged.  “On Earth the standard mode of transmission, of E. Coli for instance, is through faecal contamination of the water supply.  These alien bacteria might propagate in the same environment.  But the Gaelorian Gem is incredibly advanced.  I can’t imagine that such contamination occurred here.  Of course, I’m no expert on their water purification systems.”

            Pausing he thoughtfully stroked his darkly stubbled chin.  He quickly squashed the fastidious side of his nature that yelled at him to go shave and shower. No time, he yelled back.  Aloud, Smith looked closely at the Robot, who was incapable of showing emotions.  But he could hear them in the Robot’s voice.  “What do you think, my dynamic detective?  Is it possible the system was contaminated intentionally?”

            The bubble shot skyward.  “Possible, yes!”

            As if lecturing to students, Smith continued.  “One thing I noticed is a correlation in the DNA studies I did earlier.  Most of the sick advanced life forms appear to have common features, both anatomically and genetically.  Typically, if they lack a natural immunity and are inter‑related species, they could all fall prey to a specific virus.  And if their physiologies are compatible, susceptibility to bacterial infections could be similar as well.

            “Therefore, our answer lies not just in how they got sick, but why.  First, we must ascertain if it’s possible to accidentally pollute the water system.  If the answer is no, then maybe this was not an unplanned occurrence.”

            “So... you believe this was deliberate?” the Robot asked in an astonished voice.

            “Not yet.  But, my silver sidekick, there’s trouble afoot.  I can smell it.”

            “Don’t you think you’re over‑reacting?”

            “If I am then I’ll know soon enough, won’t I?”  Smith gestured for Ceph to join him.  Once the link was complete the told the translucent alien about his hunches.  Come, I want you to tell me all you know about the interrelationships of the aliens who are ill.  You spoke of some of it earlier, but I need further information.

            As you’ve observed, the N’las and the Bnlak-Rulan are of similar stock also, the two are fond of slave labor. They subjugated a species called the ShanDow which were then genetically altered to survive on the N’las and Bnlak home worlds. The genetic manipulation allowed a certain amount of cross breeding between Bnlak and ShanDow.  Over the generations the slaves, both ShanDow and half-breed, occasionally escaped and formed independent colonies on worlds considered beneath the N’las’ notice.  Their off‑spring became the Azmit or Coragnani.

            Some of who fell prey to the bacterial here, Smith stated, with a firm nod of his head.

            Correct!  Anyway, back to the original space‑faring groups from that sector.  In a more distant way, at least in terms of light‑years, they originated out of Cel’nar’lat, Bnlak‑Zeg, and Ty’at.  In turn, they are related to the Limnat and Brokani, said to the be the oldest of those lineages...

            Wait!  Now those names ring a bell. Smith twisted to face the Robot. “Weren’t we informed that the ship’s doctor was incapacitated during a brawl between the Limnat and...and...”

            “Brokani,” the Robot finished for him.

            “Exactly.”  Smith began to pace again, ignoring the being above him who patiently waited fro him to vent his excess energy.  “Don’t you think it odd that the Limnat and Brokani should be slaughtering each other one moment, evicted the next, and then suddenly genetically compatible species are dying of a disease that isn’t affecting anyone else?  If these beings are as advanced as Ceph says then it’s not beyond reason to assume they could genetically engineer a form of bacterium specifically designed to kill their enemies.”

            “A bit obvious, don’t you think?  Surely someone would have suspected when only that lineage was dying off here.”

            “Not if they used the presence of the tribbles to hide behind.  It’d be convenient to blame them.”

            “I agree, but still, the Limnat and Brokani were gone before we arrived.”

            Smith shrugged.  “It’s not impossible for a third party to complete the job.  Some people will do anything for money.” I ought to know, he brutally chastised himself.

            “Again, I concur,” the Robot responded.  “But the fact remains that the Limnat and Brokani were all kicked off the ship.”

            Fists clenched at his temples, Smith tried to press some sense into his jumbled thoughts.  A light began to glow behind his eyes. “I recognize the dispute between the two factions was over.  But maybe the initial altercation wasn’t limited to fisticuffs between the vacationing Limnat and Brokani.  Isn’t it possible that, in their zeal to hurt one another, they weren’t merely lashing out at one group but against an entire lineage?”

            Inspiration exploded like fireworks.  Ceph, who is related to who?

            The N’las, Bnlak-Rulan, Bnlak-Zeg, and the half‑breed slaves are all descended from the Brokani.  Limnat spawned the others I mentioned.

            Smith fairly raced out of the ship with Ceph and the Robot hot on his heels.  He cornered the crew chief as they were having a break.  “I need information.  Immediately.”  Smith fought to catch his breath, not because he was winded from his exertions but because of his excitement.  “Tell me, do you have access to records of who has died of the disease and who hasn’t?”

            “Yes,” the crab‑like leader answered, putting its half‑chewed food down.

            “Are all of then either of the N’las, Bnlak-Rulan, Azmit or Coragnani?”

            The alien entered information into a credit card thin wafer with a tapping of its pincer tips.  “All, yes.  You have found answers?”

            Totally ignoring the question, Smith pressed on.  “What about the Cel’nar’lat and the Ty’at?  Are any beings of those worlds here?”

            Again the crew chief checked and gave a positive affirmation.

            Now came the most crucial of questions.  “Have any of them fallen ill?”

            “No.  None.”

            Smith suddenly crumpled to his knees in mental and physical exhaustion.  There it was.  The answer.  It all came together at last.

            As others crowded around him in concern, Smith said, “Someone from the Limnat lineage has put bacterial into the water supply, counting only on the Brokani descendents getting sick.  I don’t think the tribbles figured into the equation then.  In fact, I suspect that   the ship’s doctor would have assumed the illness was some endemic to the N’las/Bn-lak and their crossbred slaves.  He would think the source was probably a virus carried on board with them.  With no one else getting ill, that would have been logical.  And since not all of them would have drank the water, most experts wouldn’t have assumed there was a problem.

            “What they didn’t count on, perhaps, was the Furball factor. The tribbles, being small and unexpectedly susceptible, got into the tainted water early and died quickly, thereby causing a problem.  The N’las/Bn-lake group also ate the tribbles, making more of them sick than the Limnat would have expected.  That drew much attention, including that of your crew as well as the GODC.

            “All this implies that the plan got seriously out of hand.  Instead of a few isolated deaths pointing to some unexpected viral infection, a significant percentage of guests from one star sector fell ill.”

            “Fascinating theory, Doctor.  Okay, I’ll buy that.  But it leaves us with the question of who polluted the water supply?”

            “Obviously someone of Limnat lineage still on board this vessel.  Or one who left shortly before the tribble trouble began.  Still, they would have no real reason to leave since they would have known they’d be immune.  And like an arsonist sticking around to enjoy the havoc he’s created, the perpetrator probably remained to watch the results of his actions.”

            “Getting a confession will be nearly impossible.”

            “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Smith said smugly.  “My friend Ceph here is a pro at gathering information.  If he’s willing, you could utilize his services.  Any one of the Limnat lines who refuses to cooperate should be held for further questioning.  If they do comply, well, they’ll certainly be in for a surprise, since concealed the facts from Ceph won’t be easy.”

            So, my steadfast friend, are you game? he asked silently.

            Game?

            Willing to be at their disposal if they need your...talents.

            There was a brief hesitation, and Smith could easily sense Ceph’s reluctance.  But the answer came just as he knew it would.  I suppose it would be wrong to refuse if my abilities are genuinely needed.

            You’ll do fine.  If I’m still around and you need me...come.

            I don’t think they’ll force you to leave...even if Penny did start the tribble travesty.

            Smith’s laughter was rich and deep.  Too much of my personality is wearing off on you, Ceph.  You are starting to sound like me!  With his right hand he reached up to touch the gossamer, almost silky, tendrils by his ear.  Ceph did not withdraw.  To respond to your comment, I don’t know what will happen now.  The Robinson’s have over stayed their allotted time by a day, at least.

            Turning back to the crew chief, Smith stated bluntly, “He’ll render any assistance you might require, IF you need it.  However, I propose that you tell the Gaelorian Gem’s staff to award him a much‑deserved vacation when he’s finished.  Heaven knows I couldn’t have solved this without him!”

            The large crustacean bent all legs, lowering its body about halfway.  “I will inform the proper authorities of your suggestion.”

            “Now that I have accomplished my main objective, there is one crucial think to do,” Smith explained to the Robot once he got back inside the Bnlak-Rulan’s vessel. 

            “Find a cure for the bacterial infection,” the Robot replied, stating the obvious.

            “Precisely.  I’ve already cultured the toxic bacteria to identify it, and now I’ll expose it to various antibiotics from the Jupiter 2.  If any of them are effective in eradicating the bacteria from the nutrient medium then I will administer the antibiotic to the alien — under extremely close surveillance, of course.”

            “And hopefully the cure won’t be worse than the disease,” quipped the Robot.

            Smith simply glared back at him.

          ******