Rassilon sighs as he looks down the plank.
Several attendants in white, pushing trolleys and chairs, are shuffling by him, around him, the flow of people like fish in a stream.
He grabs one woman by the shoulder, smiling a blank, unthreatening smile at her.
Project reassurance, he tells himself glibly as he gauges the woman’s reactions. It’s been a while since he’s had to remind himself of how to act to get information.
The small, one-eyed heart of a face responds as he thought it would, blinking its one blue eye and shuddering, the short worm’s-beak mouth wheeling with resonant odd clicks and catches and whirs.
“I’m sorry sir, but the Hospital is closed to visitors; We’ve had an incident. Please go back to your ship!”
She scurries off, her thin hands driving off with a hovering chair full of a pile of grey, slimy, occasionally bubbling patient.
A Turelo woman, he surmises, shifting himself forward through the rushing crowd.
A man whose brilliant pate is an almost diacritically mottled golden ball strikes a heavy foot across his path, his long marble fingers five in number and dangling, the palm pensive and… strangely empty.