“You know, of course, that the Galactic Confederation has been delaying and stalling any action on Hospital Earth’s application for full status as one of the Confederation powers and for a seat on the council. We had fulfilled two criteria for admission without difficulty—we had resolved our problems at home so that we were free from war on our own planet, and we had a talent that is much needed and badly in demand in the galaxy, a job to do that would fit into the Confederation’s organization. But the Confederation has always had a third criterion for its membership, a criterion that Hospital Earth could not so easily prove or demonstrate.”
The Black Doctor smiled. “After all, there could be no place in a true Confederation of worlds for any one race of people that considered itself superior to all the rest. No race can be admitted to the Confederation until its members have demonstrated that they are capable of tolerance, willing to accept the members of other races on an equal footing. And it has always been the nature of Earthmen to be intolerant, to assume that one who looks strange and behaves differently must somehow be inferior.”
The Black Doctor crossed the room and opened a folder on the desk. “You can read the details some other time, if you like. You were selected by the Galactic Confederation from a thousand possible applicants, to serve as a test case, to see if a place could be made for you on Hospital Earth. No one here was told of your position—not even you—although certain of us suspected the truth. The Confederation wanted to see if a well-qualified, likeable and intelligent creature from another world would be accepted and elevated to equal rank as a physician with Earthmen.”
Dal stared at him. “And I was the one?”
“You were the one. It was a struggle, all right, but Hospital Earth has finally satisfied the Confederation. At the end of this conclave we will be admitted to full membership and given a permanent seat and vote in the galactic council. Our probationary period will be over. But enough of that. What about you? What are your plans? What do you propose to do now that you have that star on your collar?”
They talked then about the future. Tiger Martin had been appointed to the survey crew returning to 31 Brucker VII, at his own request, while Jack was accepting a temporary teaching post in the great diagnostic clinic at Hospital Philadelphia. There were a dozen things that Dal had considered, but for the moment he wanted only to travel from medical center to medical center on Hospital Earth, observing and studying in order to decide how he would best like to use his abilities and his position as a Physician from Hospital Earth. “It will be in surgery, of course,” he said. “Just where in surgery, or what kind, I don’t know just yet. But there will be time enough to decide that.”
“Then go along,” Dr. Arnquist said, “with my congratulations and blessing. You have taught us a great deal, and perhaps you have learned some things at the same time.”
Dal hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded. “I’ve learned some things,” he said, “but there’s still one thing that I want to do before I go.”
He lifted his little pink friend gently down from his shoulder and rested him in the crook of his arm. Fuzzy looked up at him, blinking his shoe-button eyes happily. “You asked me once to leave Fuzzy with you, and I refused. I couldn’t see then how I could possibly do without him; even the thought was frightening. But now I think I’ve changed my mind.”
He reached out and placed Fuzzy gently in the Black Doctor’s hand. “I want you to keep him,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll need him any more. I’ll miss him, but I think it would be better if I don’t have him now. Be good to him, and let me visit him once in a while.”
The Black Doctor looked at Dal, and then lifted Fuzzy up to his own shoulder. For a moment the little creature shivered as if afraid. Then he blinked twice at Dal, trustingly, and snuggled in comfortably against the Black Doctor’s neck.
Without a word Dal turned and walked out of the office. As he stepped down the corridor, he waited fearfully for the wave of desolation and loneliness he had felt before when Fuzzy was away from him.
But there was no hint of those desolate feelings in his mind now. And after all, he thought, why should there be? He was not a Garvian any longer. He was a Star Surgeon from Hospital Earth.
He smiled as he stepped from the elevator into the main lobby and crossed through the crowd to the street doors. He pulled his scarlet cape tightly around his throat. Drawing himself up to the full height of which he was capable, he walked out of the building and strode down onto the street.
An Ounce of Cure
The doctor’s office was shiny and modern. Behind the desk the doctor smiled down at James Wheatley through thick glasses. “Now, then! What seems to be the trouble?”
Wheatley had been palpitating for five days straight at the prospect of coming here. “I know it’s silly,” he said. “But I’ve been having a pain in my toe.”
“Indeed!” said the doctor. “Well, now! How long have you had this pain, my man?”
“About six months now, I’d say. Just now and then, you know. It’s never really been bad. Until last week. You see—”
“I see,” said the doctor. “Getting worse all the time, you say.”
Wheatley wiggled the painful toe reflectively. “Well—you might say that. You see, when I first—”
“How old did you say you were, Mr. Wheatley?”
“Fifty-five.”
“Fifty-five!” The doctor leafed through the medical record on his desk. “But this is incredible. You haven’t had a checkup in almost ten years!”
“I guess I haven’t,” said Wheatley, apologetically. “I’d been feeling pretty well until—”
“Feeling well!” The doctor stared in horror. “But my dear fellow, no checkup since January 1963! We aren’t in the Middle Ages, you know. This is 1972.”
“Well, of course—”
“Of course you may be feeling well enough, but that doesn’t mean everything is just the way it should be. And now, you see, you’re having pains in your toes!”
“One toe,” said Wheatley. “The little one on the right. It seemed to me—”
“One toe today, perhaps,” said the doctor heavily. “But tomorrow—” He heaved a sigh. “How about your breathing lately? Been growing short of breath when you hurry upstairs?”
“Well—I have been bothered a little.”
“I thought so! Heart pound when you run for the subway? Feel tired all day? Pains in your calves when you walk fast?”
“Uh—yes, occasionally, I—” Wheatley looked worried and rubbed his toe on the chair leg.
“You know that fifty-five is a dangerous age,” said the doctor gravely. “Do you have a cough? Heartburn after dinner? Prop up on pillows at night? Just as I thought! And no checkup for ten years!” He sighed again.
“I suppose I should have seen to it,” Wheatley admitted. “But you see, it’s just that my toe—”
“My dear fellow!
