“Oh—you know these Administrative people,” the interne said depreciatingly. “One mustn’t mind them. They’re necessary nuisances.” He eyed Kennon curiously. “How is it that you didn’t stand on your professional rights?”
“I have my reasons—but they have nothing to do with medicine.”
“Oh—I see. Ethical.” The interne’s voice was faintly sarcastic.
“Manners, Doctor—manners.” Kennon’s voice was gentle but the interne flushed a dull red.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s normal for a graduate to confuse liberty with license.” Kennon smiled. “Don’t worry. I shan’t report you.”
“That’s good of you, sir.” Smalley’s face registered relief. Demerits were difficult to erase—particularly ones of courtesy.
Kennon wondered if the young man would report himself. He doubted it. The interne didn’t look the type—probably he was dated for some obscure job, like a general practitioner. He shrugged. It took all kinds to make a profession. Even the Smalleys had their place.
“That girl you brought in,” Smalley said as they entered a white car emblazoned with the three crosses, red, blue, and green, that represented the three fields of medicine. “She’s an interesting case. I’ve never seen space shock before. And the patient herself—one would hardly believe she was a Betan.”
“She isn’t,” Kennon said.