It involved getting out of the tube, for one thing, and getting to a medical office, if they had any such thing in the base. That was the first step.
He counted to ten, then threw his broom in the air and uttered a piercing shriek. Then he fell to the ground, panting and gasping, and lay there flat against the cold metal of the airshaft.
Instantly his co-workers gathered around him. Twenty dark, unfriendly faces peered down, and they began to gabble something in their language that probably was the equivalent of "What's the matter with you?"
He lolled his head from side to side as if to indicate that he had suffered a stroke of some kind and couldn't speak. Drawing on his psychiatric experience, Lawrence offered a good imitation of a catatonic seizure, so convincing that before long he himself had burst out in a cold sweat as he lay rigid there.
Another Vegan came over—evidently a superior—and rattled out a quick command.
Immediately, two of the broom-workers put down their tools and hoisted Lawrence between them. They began to march back through the airshaft with him, up and out into the plaza again. They carried him into a tall, gleaming building which was presumably the medical office.
He allowed one corner of his lip to curl upward in a smile of satisfaction. So far, so good.
Two doctors were in attendance. They studied him closely, tapped him, prodded him, and held long colloquies with each other. After a few minutes of this, one of them disappeared into the adjoining room of the medical office, apparently to prepare some sort of test.
The other Vegan doctor took a few steps back and consulted a bulky red-bound volume on his desk. Apparently he'd never seen a seizure like this before.