‘They say that Sanitalis is creating a monster of its own, the planet’s out of control,’ said Tancredi.

The Chief Psychiatrist threw back his head and laughed with delight.

‘What? Devotion to medicine spawns a beast? Insanity! Our health service is beyond reproach, as you’ll soon discover.’

Tancredi was about to reply when the Chief Psychiatrist pointed at his stomach. He looked down. He was the only one to have suffered an injury. He had been pierced by a flying scalpel.

VII
Tancredi Goes To Hospital

Tancredi was rushed to hospital in Hippocratopolis, the capital of Sanitalis. Watching the battle, he had felt a twinge in his stomach but failed to react. For someone skilled in facing reality, he was very squeamish about blood.

He had once had an operation on Earth to remove a mole from his chest. Afterwards, he was told to rest; instead he made love to a girl all night. On awakening he went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. There was a hole in his chest where the wound had opened. He fainted on the spot. Since then he had found reasons to delay visits to dentists and doctors.

The injury was now revealed to be serious.

‘I’ll operate on you myself,’ said the Chief Psychiatrist, grinning in anticipation of repairing an alien, ‘but first I must ask you some questions – how do you feel?’

‘Not good,’ Tancredi replied, ‘I’ve got a sharp pain in my abdomen …’

‘I was, in fact, asking about your inner feelings. I’d like to take you back to your earliest memories.’

‘Is that really necessary?’ replied Tancredi, turning green.

‘Of course. Here on Sanitalis, everyone visits a psychiatrist daily as part of their long-term health needs.’

After his operation, Tancredi awoke in a berth at the end of a row of beds. Through the window, he could see a building site. The ward was magnificently furnished, with marble columns and silk curtains. Patients lay in four-poster beds with carved mahogany bedposts. Despite the pleasant surroundings, Tancredi hated hospitals and wanted to leave immediately.

Beyond this, he felt something was wrong. He was grateful for the care he’d received, but any world run by psychiatrists was, by definition, a disaster zone.

Although he didn’t understand the patients’ talk about a monster, he felt sure the planet was destined for a bad ending. He turned to speak to the patient in the bed next to him, and was surprised to see a dog’s snout protruding from beneath the covers.

‘Hello,’ he said, ‘are you sick?’

Tancredi was used to speaking to animals, he’d spent his childhood talking to his dog. He far preferred animals to people. As his dog grew older, he dreaded the moment of its death. When the time came he was inconsolable. For Tancredi, the definition of sadness was the death of a dog.

‘What’s a dog doing in hospital?’ he asked an ample-bosomed Matron who had come over to nurse him.