This was perfectly feasible. Despite its oddities as judged by Earthly standards, it was humanoid and therefore roughly familiar to him. Men did not have more than three molars in a row, but other species did. He had by this time mastered the sophisticated equipment well enough to do the job in a fraction of the time he had required on Earth. He could have the inlay shaped and cast within the time limit.
The trouble was, his experience and observation indicated that the specified reconstruction was not proper in this case. It would require the removal of far more healthy dentin than was necessary, for one thing. In addition, there was evidence of persistent inflammation in the gingival tissue that could herald periodontal disease.
He finally disobeyed the instructions and placed a temporary filling. He hoped he would be given the opportunity to explain his action, though he was afraid he had already failed the exam. There was just too much to do, he knew too little, and the competition was too strong.
The field examination finished in the afternoon, and nothing was scheduled for that evening. Next day the written exam—actually a combination of written, verbal and demonstrative questions—was due, and everyone except Treetrunk was deep in the review texts. Treetrunk was dictating a letter home, his parameter of the translator blanked out so that his narration would not disturb the others.
Dillingham pored over the three-dimensional pictures and captions produced by the tomes while listening to the accompanying lecture. There was so much to master in such a short time! It was fascinating, but he could handle only a tiny fraction of it. He wondered what phenomenal material remained to be presented in the courses themselves, since all the knowledge of the galaxy seemed to be required just to pass the entrance exam. Tooth transplantation? Tissue regeneration? Restoration of living enamel, rather than crude metal fillings?
The elevator opened. A creature rather like a walking oyster emerged. Its yard-wide shell parted to reveal eye-stalks and a comparatively dainty mouth. "This is the—dental yard?" it inquired timorously.
"Great purple quills!" Pincushion swore quietly. "One of those insidious panhandlers. I thought they'd cleared such obtusities out long ago."
Treetrunk, closest to the elevator, looked up and switched on his section of the translator. "The whole planet is dental, idiot!" he snapped after the query had been repeated for him. "This is a private dormitory."
The oyster persisted. "But you are off-duty dentists? I have a terrible toothache—"
"We are
applicants,"
Treetrunk informed it imperiously. "What you want is the clinic. Please leave us alone."
"But the clinic is closed. Please—my jaw pains me so that I can not eat. I am an old clam—"
Treetrunk impatiently switched off the translator and resumed his letter. No one else said anything.
Dillingham could not let this pass. "Isn't there some regular dentist you can see who can relieve the pain until morning? We are studying for a very important examination."
"I have no credit—no stiggle—no money for private service," Oyster wailed. "The clinic is closed for the night, and my tooth—"
Dillingham looked at the pile of texts before him. He had so little time, and the material was so important. He had to make a good score tomorrow to mitigate today's disaster.
"Please," Oyster whined. "It pains me so—"
Dillingham gave up. He was not sure regulations permitted it, but he had to do something. There was a chance he could at least relieve the pain. "Come with me," he said.
Pincushion waved his pins, that were actually sensitive celia capable of intricate manoeuvring. "Not in our operatory," he protested. "How can we concentrate with that going on?"
Dillingham restrained his unreasonable anger and took the patient to the elevator. After some errors of navigation he located a vacant testing operatory elsewhere in the application section. Fortunately the translators were everywhere, all keyed to everything, so he could converse with the creature and clarify its complaint.
"The big flat one," it said as it propped itself awkwardly in the chair and opened its shell. "It hurts."
Dillingham took a look. The complaint was valid: most of the teeth had conventional plasticene fillings, but one of these had somehow been dislodged from the proximal surface of a molar: a Class II restoration. The gap was packed with rancid vegetable matter—seaweed?—and was undoubtedly quite uncomfortable for the patient.
"You must understand," he cautioned the creature, "that I am not a regular dentist here, or even a student. I have neither the authority nor the competence to do any work of a permanent nature on your teeth. All I can do is clean out the cavity and attempt to relieve the pain so that you can get along until the clinic opens in the morning. Then an authorized dentist can do the job properly. Do you understand?"
"It hurts," Oyster repeated.
Dillingham located the creature's planet in the directory and punched out the formula for a suitable anaesthetic. The dispenser gurgled and rolled out a cylinder and swab. He squeezed the former and dabbed with the latter around the affected area, hiding his irritation at the patient's evident inability to sit still even for this momentary operation. While waiting for it to take effect, he requested more information from the translator—a versatile instrument.
"Dominant species of Planet Oyster," the machine reported. "Highly intelligent, non-specialized, emotionally stable life-form." Dillingham tried to reconcile this with what he had already observed of his patient, and concluded that individuals must vary considerably from the norm. He listened to further vital information, and soon had a fair notion of Oyster's general nature and the advisable care of his dentition. There did not seem to be anything to prevent his treating this complaint.
He applied a separator (over the patient's protest) and cleaned out the impacted debris with a spoon excavator without difficulty. But Oyster shied away at the sight of the rotary diamond burr. "Hurts!" he protested.
"I have given you adequate local anaesthesia," Dillingham explained. "You should feel nothing except a slight vibration in your jaw, which will not be uncomfortable. This is a standard drill, the same kind you've seen many times before." As he spoke he marvelled at what he now termed standard. The burr was shaped like nothing—literally—on Earth, and it rotated at 150,000 r.p.m.—several times the maximum employed back at home. It was awesomely efficient. "I must clean the surfaces of the cavity—"
Oyster shut mouth and shell firmly. "Hurts!" his whisper emerged through clenched defences.
Dillingham thought despairingly of the time this was costing him. If he didn't return to his texts soon, he would forfeit his remaining chance to pass the written exam.
He sighed and put away the power tool. "Perhaps I can clean it with the hand tools," he said. "I'll have to use this rubber dam, though, since this will take more time."
One look at the patient convinced him otherwise. Regretfully he put aside the rubber square that would have kept the field of operation dry and clean while he worked.
He had to break through the overhanging enamel with a chisel, the patient wincing every time he lifted the mallet and doubling the necessity for the assistant he didn't have. Back on Earth Miss Galland had always calmed the patient. A power mallet would have helped, but that, too, was out. This was as nervous a patient as he had ever had.
It was a tedious and difficult task. He had to scrape off every portion of the ballroom cavity from an awkward angle, hardly able to see what he was doing since he needed a third hand for the dental mirror.
It would have to be a Class II—jammed in the side of the molar and facing the adjacent molar, and both teeth so sturdy as to have very little give. A Class II was the very worst restoration to attempt in makeshift fashion. He could have accelerated the process by doing a slipshod job, but it was not in him to skimp even when he knew it was only for a night. Half an hour passed before he performed the toilet: blowing out the loose debris with a jet of warm air, swabbing the interior with alcohol, drying it again.
"Now I'm going to block this up with a temporary wax," he told Oyster. "This will not stand up to intensive chewing, but should hold you comfortably until morning." Not that the warning was likely to make much difference. The trouble had obviously started when the original filling came loose, but it had been weeks since that had happened. Evidently the patient had not bothered to have it fixed until the pain became unbearable—and now that the pain was gone, Oyster might well delay longer, until the work had to be done all over again. The short-sighted refuge from initial inconvenience was hardly a monopoly of Earthly sufferers.
"No," Oyster said, jolting him back to business. "Wax tastes bad."
"This is pseudo-wax—sterile and guaranteed tasteless to most life forms. And it is only for the night. As soon as you report to the clinic—"
"Tastes bad!" the patient insisted, starting to close his shell.
Dillingham wondered again just what the translator had meant by "highly intelligent... emotionally stable". He kept his peace and dialled for amalgam.
"Nasty colour," Oyster said.
"But this is pigmented red, to show that the filling is intended as temporary. It will not mar your appearance, in this location. I don't want the clinic to have any misunderstanding." Or the University administration!
The shell clamped all the way shut, nearly pinning his fingers. "Nasty colour!", muffled.
More was involved here than capricious difficulty. Did this patient intend to go to the clinic at all? Oyster might be angling for a permanent filling. "What colour does suit you?"
"Gold." The shell inched open.
It figured. Well, better to humour this patient, rather than try to force him into a more sensible course. Dillingham could make a report to the authorities, who could then roust out Oyster and check the work properly.
At his direction, the panel extruded a ribbon of gold foil.
He placed this in the miniature annealing oven and waited for the slow heat to act.
"You're burning it up!" Oyster protested.
"By no means. It is necessary to make the gold cohesive, for better service. You see—"
"Hot," Oyster said. So much for helpful explanations. He could have employed noncohesive metal, but this was a lesser technique that did not appeal to him.
At length he had suitable ropes of gold for the slow, delicate task of building up the restoration inside the cavity. The first layer was down; once he malleted it into place—
The elevator burst asunder. A second oyster charged into the operatory waving a translucent tube. "Villain!" it exclaimed. "What are you doing to my grandfather?"
Dillingham was taken aback. "Your grandfather? I'm trying to make him comfortable until—"
The newcomer would have none of it. "You're torturing him. My poor, dear, long-suffering grandfather! Monster! How could you?"
"But I'm only—"
Young Oyster levelled the tube at him. Its end was solid, but Dillingham knew it was a genuine weapon. "Get away from my grandfather. I saw you hammering spikes into his venerable teeth, you sadist! I'm taking him home!"
Dillingham did not move. He considered this a stance of necessity, not courage. "Not until I complete this work. I can't let him go out like this, with the excavation exposed."
"Beast! Pervert!
Humanoid
!" the youngster screamed. "I'll volatize you!"
Searing light beamed from the solid tube. The metal mallet in Dillingham's hand melted and dripped to the floor.
He leaped for the oyster and grappled for the weapon. The giant shell clamped shut on his hand as they fell to the floor. He struggled to right himself, but discovered that the creature had withdrawn all its appendages and now was nothing more than a two-hundred-pound clam—with Dillingham's left hand firmly pinioned.
"Assaulter of innocents!" the youngster squeaked from within the shell. "Unprovoked attacker! Get your foul paw out of my ear!"
"Friend, I'll be glad to do that—as soon as you let go," he gasped. What a situation for a dentist!
"Help! Butchery! Genocide!"
Dillingham finally found his footing and hauled on his arm. The shell tilted and lifted from the floor, but gradually let go of the trapped hand. He quickly sat on the shell to prevent it from opening again and surveyed the damage.
Blood trickled from multiple scratches along the wrist, and his hand smarted strenuously, but there was no serious wound.
"Let my grandson go!" the old oyster screamed now. "You have no right to muzzle him like that! This is a free planet!"
Dillingham marvelled once more at the translator's original description of the species. These just did not seem to be reasonable creatures. He stood up quickly and took the fallen tube.
"Look, gentlemen—I'm very sorry if I have misunderstood your conventions, but I must insist that the young person leave."
Young Oyster peeped out of his shell. "Unwholesome creature! Eater of sea-life! How dare you make demands of us?"
Dillingham pointed the tube at him. He had no idea how to fire it, but hoped the creature could be bluffed. "Please leave at once. I will release your grandfather as soon as the work is done."
The youngster focused on the weapon and obeyed, grumbling. Dillingham touched the elevator lock the moment he was gone.
The oldster was back in the chair. Somehow the seat adjustment had changed, so that this was now a basket-like receptacle, obviously more comfortable for this patient. "You are more of a being than you appear," Oyster remarked. "I was never able to handle that juvenile so efficiently."
Dillingham contemplated the droplets of metal splattered on the floor. That heat-beam had been entirely too close—and deadly. His hands began to shake in delayed reaction. He was not a man of violence, and his own quick action had surprised him. The stress of recent events had certainly got to him, he thought ruefully.
"But he's a good lad, really," Oyster continued. "A trifle impetuous—but he inherited that from me. I hope you won't report this little misunderstanding."