Horsefeathers gazed at him in wonder. "I never knew that!"
"Perhaps your dentist did not feel this was necessary for you to know," Dillingham said gently. "Many patients are not interested in such technical details."
Until their teeth hurt,
he thought wryly
But the silence of the hall as he worked suggested that the point had been made. It was always best to let the patient know as much as feasible about his condition. An ignorant patient could be a difficult one. Horsefeathers had not been an idle complainer; he had really had pain, though the cause was subtle and slow to develop. His occlusion had been adjusted properly at the time of the massive restoration, Dillingham was certain. But with time and use it had changed marginally, and the jaw had felt the stress. Horsefeathers probably consumed enormous quantities of roughage and spent many hours a day chewing it, so this accentuated the condition.
Dillingham had shown the dentists of Hobgoblin how to practise their profession—using their own tools. The University reputation would profit. There should be a number of student applications from Hobgoblin next term.
He finished, and flushed the polished surfaces. "Expectorate, please."
"Huh?"
"Spit." The translator was being too literal, rendering a complex word in English into a complex equivalent in Clovenhoofian. But he'd have to tone down his language. "Now it will be a while before the inflammation subsides," he warned Horsefeathers. "But there should be a steady improvement now, until you feel no pain at all."
"It'll still hurt?" The patient looked dubious.
"It has to heal. When you—when you break a leg, you don't expect it to be good as new the moment the vet sets it, do you?"
Horsefeathers thought about that. He looked at his leg. He smiled. "Thank you, thank you, Doctor!" he exclaimed at last. "I'm so glad you came here." He trotted off, limping a little before remembering that it was his mouth that hurt.
Another patient mounted the stage. This was a native Hobgoblin. Dillingham knew that meant trouble. He had counted his dental chickens too soon!
"May I have your name, sir?" Miss Thousandlegs inquired.
"Go fly a kite!"
True to form, Dillingham thought. And how would she react—by melting or stinging?
"How do you spell that, please?"
Dillingham liked her better all the time. Spelling via translator was devious and suspect, but she had fielded the insult nicely.
"G o," the goblin spelled. "F L Y. The A is an initial for Algernon. Last name is KIT E."
Dillingham reminded himself not to jump to conclusions.
"And what is your problem?" Miss Thousandlegs inquired.
"This tooth—it squishes. Sometimes."
"May I look at it?"
"You're not the dentist, bugface!"
"Nevertheless, I may be able to narrow down the possibilities and save both you and Dr. Dillingham trouble."
Grudgingly he let her look. "Another restoration," she murmured. "Tooth appears to be healthy."
"It's not healthy, stupid. It squishes. Sometimes."
"Could you show me?"
G. F. A. Kite bit down, almost nipping several of her hair-fine legs. "Nope. It's not squishing right now. But it does. Sometimes."
"I'll take an X-ray," she said. She did.
"When do I see the damn dentist?"
"In just a moment. Let me check your occlusion first." She did. "You may see him now."
She accompanied the patient to Dillingham's operatory. "X-ray shows nothing but the tooth is mobile," she said. "The occlusion is slightly off."
Kite made a face. "I heard that about Horsefeathers. But mine is only one tooth and it doesn't hurt, it squishes. Sometimes."
"Nevertheless, occlusion seems to be indicated," Miss Thousandlegs said. "Two plus two equals four. I'm sure if we adjust that, your symptom will fade."
Dillingham agreed with her—but felt she was going too far. She was not merely getting the facts, she was diagnosing and advising the patient—and that was normally the dentist's prerogative.
He
should add two and two and get four.
He checked the teeth. They were similar to human dentures, and most had been restored metallically. All were solid, including the squisher, except for that trace mobility his assistant had noted.
He inspected the X-ray photograph. She was correct there too. The only shadows in the picture conformed to the restorative work present. It had to be the occlusion, again.
He made the necessary adjustments. But one thing nagged him. The occlusion was only marginally skew. Presuming that this condition had developed only recently, the described symptom was too sharp, too localized.
Two plus two might equal four—but so did one plus three. And the goblin audience was suspiciously silent.
But what else...?
He took the probe and checked around the tooth again. It remained firm, and the gum line was stable. He looked at the X-ray once more. The metal of the restoration shadowed it, one projection extending along the distal surface adjacent to the next tooth. No trouble there.
Two plus two...
Interesting coincidence that the Hobgoblin chief should send him two occlusion problems in a row. He would have expected something more devious.
He poked the tip of the probe between the two teeth, verifying that the metal of each restoration touched there. The space was narrow; there was no way he could reach it except by forcing the wire point down, causing the patient momentary discomfort—
"Ouch!" Kite yelped, jumping.
The probe broke through into something soft.
"Equals four!" Dillingham cried. He had found it! A thin cavity just under the metal, concealed from direct view by its location and the overhanging restoration. Its shadow in the X-ray had been hidden by the configuration of the metal itself. Truly, an invisible deterioration—that squished. Sometimes.
Miss Thousandlegs had almost led him astray by her too-ready diagnosis. Had he corrected the occlusion and sent the patient home, the decay could have continued for months. By the time it received proper attention, the tooth could have been lost. All because the primary symptom seemed to match the wrong condition.
Two plus two
did
equal four. But that was not the whole story.
And the devilish goblin dental chief must have known it—setting the University representative up with a valid occlusion case first. Then the
seeming
occlusion case... what a trap!
"Anaesthetic," Dillingham said. He had had a close call.
Miss Thousandlegs brought the loaded needle. He injected the flinching patient. Oops—it had been so long since he'd used anything this primitive that he'd forgotten to apply a surface anaesthetic before giving the shot, and his assistant hadn't reminded him. Not her fault; she just wasn't familiar with his procedures, his little lapses.
He readied the drill. "Vacuum," he said.
Miss Thousandlegs applied the vacuum, sucking the saliva and moisture left from the water-cooled drill.
"Other side," he murmured, as her instrument obstructed his view. He began cutting away the overhang of the tooth.
He finished and removed the drill. "Mallet," he said, picking up the chisel. She held it up, but his hand missed contact. The mallet bounced off his fingers and fell to the floor. The goblins guffawed.
Dillingham's ears were burning. Again—not her fault, he reminded himself. She just wasn't adjusted to his gestures. But it was inconvenient and embarrassing, particularly on stage.
He knocked off the metal crown, exposing the decay. He fished for the gold chunk before the patient could choke on it—and banged into one of his assistant's insect-like arms. She had been reaching for it also.
Dillingham stopped and counted to ten mentally. Miss Thousandlegs was competent and co-operative—but it just wasn't working out. He could not operate effectively with her.
"Miss—" he started. And blinked. Miss Thousandlegs was gone. She had been replaced by a humanoid biped.
He was tired of this long-distance sleight-of-hand. Miss Tarantula might enjoy tugging on interplanetary threads and changing his assistants in mid-operation, but he did not. "Vacuum," he said abruptly, taking up the drill again.
Assistant number four, the biped, applied the vacuum. Her arms terminated in quintuple, jointed digits that pinched together to hold the tube. He had seen more effective appendages for this work, but at least she did not get in his way or obstruct his vision.
He finished his excavation. "Hydrocolloid," he snapped. This assistant would have to stand on her own couple of feet; he was out of patience.
She already had the metal form and cold water ready for the hydrocolloid impression. He made the cast without difficulty, and she took it away. He put a temporary covering over the tooth.
"A new restoration will have to be made," he told Kite. "I have prepared the tooth and taken an impression, but it will be some time before the restoration is ready. Your local prosthodontists are perfectly capable of doing it, and I commend you to their services. You were quite correct about your problem, and fortunately we have diagnosed it in time to save the tooth."
"Doctor," the new assistant said.
"What?" He was tired, and there was something strange about the way she spoke.
"Will you check the other restorations now?"
"The other—" He paused. "You're right! A good restoration does not go wrong without cause. I'll have to have a look." It was a dismal prospect, but he could not risk the same kind of oversight the local dentists had made.
He hammered off the adjacent cap. It came away easily—too easily. He scraped at the exposed cement. "Soft," he muttered. "No wonder there was trouble."
The goblin chief was about to be snared in his own prosthodontic trap.
The assistant took the gold cap and cleaned out the debris. Dillingham hammered at the next restoration. This one was stiffer, but finally came off. The binding cement was similarly soft. "Brother!" he muttered. "They must all be defective. The cement is deteriorating. Real trouble coming up."
"Now just a moment," a voice objected. It was the chief dentist of Hobgoblin. "I did that work myself. There is nothing wrong with it!"
Dillingham glanced at him tiredly. So this was a personal matter with the goblin now. An excellent opportunity to embarrass the chief before his entire profession, to torpedo his planetary prestige.
He was tempted. The chief had tried to trick him, and had almost succeeded, and the audience had been thirsty for his blood right along. He could get even with the whole species of Hobgoblin and make its dentistry the laughing stock of the galaxy.
He saw that the Jann was back in his booth. That made it safe: he could tell off the planet with impunity, for the huge robot would vaporize anyone who dared attack. There would be blood and carnage and flame—
Dillingham shook himself. What was he thinking of! He was here to make friends for the university, not to incite riot. He
really
needed an assistant, if his nerves were this tight. Someone to cool him off...
"The work is excellent," he said. "I could not do better myself. The
cement
is defective. Give it time and every restoration will come loose. This entire mouth will have to be re-done. And every case where you used this type of cement. They are all suspect."
The goblin dentist looked. He pried off another cap and saw the condition of the underlying cement. He sagged. "You are right, Doctor. It was a new variety—not time-tested, but with the highest recommendations. We used it on our special patients—tourists, visitors, persons of note—"
"Not your fault," Dillingham said graciously, suddenly seeing the answer to those vague off-planet complaints. That same highly-touted new cement had been used on all of them! "Perhaps there is some quality of the local environment that affects the cement as it is being applied. The University will be happy to run tests for you. It's a shame to have work this good undermined by something this small."
"Doctor," the goblin chief said with surprising politeness, "you have made your point. University training is beneficial. We shall act accordingly."
Somehow this did not seem to be the proper time to confess that he had almost missed the key cavity—or that only the timely reminder by his bipedal assistant had prompted him to perform the routine check that had led to the major discovery.
His assistant—she had been perfect! She had done everything just right without intruding. This was the one he wanted to keep.
"What is your name and planet?" he asked her as he finished his preparations on the patient.
"Miss Galland—Earth," she said.
"Very good, Miss Galland of Earth. I want you to—" He stopped. He had suddenly realized what was strange about her voice.
She wasn't speaking through the translator!
"Earth?"
"Yes, Doctor," she said as she cleaned up the patient's ugly face.
Dillingham straightened up and looked directly at her for the first time. She was a young, aesthetic, female human being.
"Judy!" he exclaimed, amazed. "Judy Galland—my old assistant!"
"I thought you'd never notice, Doctor," she said, smiling.
"What are you doing here?"
"Why, I'm assisting you. I thought you knew."
"I mean, here in the galaxy! I left you on Earth, back when—"
She smiled again, very prettily. "That's a long story, Doctor. Let's just say that I needed a position, and there was an opening. After that it got complicated. Deep space, and all that. Frankly, your robot rescued me from an unfortunate situation."
He saw now that there were some ugly marks on her arms, as though she had been burned, and she looked as though she had not slept in days. "Unfortunate situation" could mean almost anything, short of an execution. She was not the expressive type. But she certainly was competent, and he was extraordinarily glad to have her here.
"The Jann brought you?" he asked, picking up the thread. "But he was supposed to be protecting me! I thought Miss Taran—"
"None but I shall do thee die!" the Jann boomed from his booth, startling them both and causing a ripple of dismay to pass through the massed goblins. "But thy skein will be too brief without a proper assistant. I perceived thou couldst not endure even forty years in thy solitary condition, and I wouldst not have age and wear compromise the letter of mine oath."