“I don’t know. I wasn’t there. But Old Doc was a stubborn cuss.”
Kennon stood up. “I’ve given instructions for treatment to your corpsman,” he said. “Now I think I’d better be getting back. I have some reports to finish.”
Mullins smiled grimly. “You know,” he said, “I get the feeling that you don’t approve of this operation.”
“Frankly, I don’t,” Kennon said, “but I signed a contract.” He turned toward the door and gestured to the two Lani who waited outside with his bags. “I can find my way to the roof,” he said.
“Well—good luck,” Mullins said. “We’ll call you again if we need you.”
“Do that,” Kennon replied. He wanted to leave, to get away from this place and back to the main island. He wanted to see Copper. He’d be damned if anyone was going to butcher her. If he had to stay here until she died of old age, he’d do it. But nobody was going to hurt her.
CHAPTER XII
Kennon wondered if his colleagues in human medicine felt toward their patients as he did toward the Lani, or if they ultimately lost their individuality and became mere hosts for diseases, parasites, and tumors—vehicles for the practice of surgical and medical skills—economic units whose well-being meant a certain amount of credits. Probably not, he decided. They were human and their very humanity made them persons rather than things.
But the possession of individuality was not an asset in the practice of animal medicine where economics was the main factor and the satisfaction of the owner the principal personality problem. The normal farm animals, the shrakes, cattle, sheep, morks, and swine were no problem. They were merely a job. But the Lani were different. They weren’t human, but they were intelligent and they did have personality even though they didn’t possess that indefinable quality that separated man from the beasts. It was hard to treat them with dispassionate objectivity. In fact, it was impossible.