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There's nothing about being a tormal to make you ashamed!" Then he grimly changed his garments for the full-dress uniform of the Med Service. There was to be a banquet at which he would sit next to the planet's chief executive and hear innumerable speeches about the splendor of Weald. Calhoun had his own, strictly Med Service opinion of the planet's latest and most boasted-of achievement.
Suddenly they began to flick out of sight by twos and threes. "Chee," said Murgatroyd with a note of finality. The last grain-ship vanished. "Calling guard-ship," said Calhoun drily. "This is Med ship Aesclipus Twenty. I called here a couple of weeks ago. You've been talking to my tormal, Murgatroyd." A pause. A blank pause. Then profanity of deep and savage intemperance.
It was the function of the tormal members of the Med Service to react to any infection more swiftly than humans could do, and to develop antibodies which destroyed that infection and could be synthesized to cure it in humans. But Murgatroyd was immune only to infections. To toxins. He was not immune to an appetite-causing molecule demanding more of itself on penalty of madness.
He snapped a command to Murgatroyd, and when the tormal was on the ground outside, he locked the port with that combination that nobody but a Med Ship man was at all likely to discover or use. "She's an idiot!" he told Murgatroyd sourly. "Come along! We've got to be idiots too!" He set out in pursuit.
Med Ships carry only one man because two could not stand the close contact without quarreling with each other. But Med Ships do carry tormals, like Murgatroyd, and a tormal and a man can get along indefinitely, like a man and a dog. It is a highly unequal friendship, but it seems to be satisfactory to both.
There were some doctors who ignored the irony of medical techniques being taught to cure non-nutritional disease, when everybody was half-fed, or less. They approved of Calhoun. They even approved of Murgatroyd when Calhoun explained his function. He was, of course, a Med Service tormal, and tormals were creatures of talent.
"Murgatroyd," said Calhoun. "I mentioned coffee!" "Chee!" shrilled Murgatroyd. But he continued to look at the door. The temperature was kept lower in the other cabin, and the look of things was different than the control compartment. The difference was part of the means by which a man was able to be alone for weeks on end alone save for his tormal without becoming ship-happy.
A breakout at no more than sixty light-hours from one's destination wasn't bad, in a strange sector of the Galaxy and after three light-years of journeying blind. "Arise and shine, Murgatroyd," said Calhoun. "Comb your whiskers. Get set to astonish the natives!" A sleepy, small, shrill voice said; "Chee!" Murgatroyd the tormal came crawling out of his small cubbyhole. He blinked at Calhoun.
"Calling guard ship," said Calhoun dryly. "This is Med Ship Aesclipus Twenty. I called here a couple of weeks ago. You've been talking to my tormal, Murgatroyd." A pause. A blank pause. Then profanity of deep and savage intemperance. "I've been on Dara," said Calhoun. Dead silence fell. "There's a famine there," said Calhoun deliberately.
The Med Ship Esclipus Twenty rode in overdrive while her ship's company drank coffee. Calhoun sipped at a full cup of strong brew, while Murgatroyd the tormal drank from the tiny mug suited to his small, furry paws. The astrogation unit showed the percentage of this overdrive hop covered up to now, and the needle was almost around to the stop pin.
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