Say It with Flowers

Say It with Flowers

By Poul Anderson

Save for a bunk, the cabin was bare. Tiny, comfortless, atremble with the energies of the ship, it surrounded Flowers like a robot womb. That was his first thought as he struggled back to consciousness.

The, through the racking stutter of a pulse run wild, he knew that hands lifted his head off the deck. He gasped for breath, Sweat drenched his coverall, chill and stinking. Feat reflexes turned the universe into horror. Through blurred vision, he looked up at the bluejacket who squatted to cradle his head.

“Flip that intercom, Pete!” the North American was saying. “Get hold of the doc. Fast!”

Flowers tried to speak, but could only rattle past the soreness in his throat.

The other guard, invisible to him, reported: “The prisoner, sir. We heard him call out and then fall. He was unconscious when we opened the door. Come to in a couple of minutes, but he's cold to touch and got a heartbeat like to bust his ribs.”

“Possibly cardiac,” said the intercom. “Carry him to sickbay. I”ll be there'”

Flowers tried to relax in the arms of the young men and bring his too rapid breathing under control. That wasn't easy. When they laid him on an examination bench, amidst goblin-eyed instruments, he must force his spine to unarch.

The medical officer was a chubby man who poked him with deft fingers while reeling off, :Chest pains?” Shortness of breath? Ever had any seizures before?” He signaled an orderly to attach electrodes.

“No. No. I ache all over, but -”

“Cardiogram normal, aside from the tachycardia,” the doctor read off the printouts.

“Encephalogram... hm-m-m, hard to tell, not epileptiform, probably just extreme agitation. Neurogram shows low-level pain activity. Take a blood sample, Collins.” He ran his palms more thoroughly over abdomen, chest and throat. “My God,” he muttered, “where did you get those tattoos?” His gaze sharpened. “Redness here, under the chin. Sore?”

“Uh-huh,” whispered Flowers.

“What happened to you?”

“I dunno. Started feeling bad. Blacked out.”

A chemical analyzer burped and extruded a strip of paper. The orderly ripped it off. “Blood pH quite high, sir,” he read. “Everything else negative.”

“Well-” The doctor rubbed his chin. “We can't do more except take an X-ray. A warcraft isn't equipped like a clinic.” He nodded at Flowers. “Don't worry. You'll transfer to the other ship in half an hour or so, and I understand she's going almost directly to Vesta. The camp there has adequate facilities. Though you look a little better already.”

“What... might this... a been?” Flowers managed to ask.

“My guess,” said the doctor, “is an allergic reaction to something you ate. That can overstimulate the vagus nerve and produce these other symptoms. You asterites never see a good many Terrestrial foods, and this navy prides itself on its menus. I'll find out what went into your dinner, including seasonings, and give you a list. Avoid those things, till the culprit has been identified, and you may have no more trouble.”

Flowers lay back while they X-rayed him. That was negative, too. The doctor said he could stay where he was, under guard, till transfer time. He stared at the overhead and concentrated on getting well.

I love you enough to tell the truth, but you must be brave enough to accept it (en anglais). Photo by Elena.