"Why do you ask these things? You are not of the Choud."

"No."

"Then why be so concerned?"

"My concern is with the ship." Dumarest glanced past the woman to where the doors stood shrouded in gloom then, taking her arm, led her toward them. "But why are you so afraid? An accident, you said, and who can help an accident? It was natural for Alline and Heyne to have wanted to see the ship. Natural also for them to have helped unload if asked. Who could guess at what would happen? Then, after the explosion, those left unhurt ran and took their injured with them. Their other dead, too?"

"No, only those hurt."

"And needing attention. Are they getting it? Do you have drugs?"

She said bitterly, "All drugs are dispensed by the Choud."

"And you daren't go to them for fear of being arrested and interrogated." Dumarest nodded. "I understand. Do you trust me, Pellia?"

"I'm not sure. You kept your word the last time we met but this is different. Why should I trust you?"

"Because I'd like to make another bargain with you." They had reached the doors and Dumarest paused. "I'll get you some drugs and do what I can to help the injured and, in return, they can do something for me. They can give me a name. A single name."

He felt her sudden tension, the abrupt strain of aroused suspicion. "Which name? Whose?"

"The one who allowed them to unload the Sivas."

The ship looked much as he had left it but the ramp was straight now and the buckling of the hull smoothed. The workers had gone and the immediate area around the vessel was deserted. Dumarest paused at the foot of the ramp, looking back toward the cold-store. Pellia was nowhere to be seen but she would be watching him, hiding in the greenery or standing immobile against a mottled patch of stone with, perhaps, her head in shadow. Good places to hide if you knew anything about camouflage and Dumarest guessed she had long since learned that it was movement and not shape which attracted the eye.

Within the ship the air held a peculiar taint of char and burned gases, of seared insulation and the reek of dispersed chemicals. The hold was a mess, the floor littered with the fragments of the caskets used to carry men and animals, coolants evaporated and leaving blotched stains, the mechanism of the apparatus itself a jumbled ruin. Dumarest touched a bulkhead and looked at the grime on his finger. Chemical explosive would have left such a trace, one of tremendous power and, apparently, poor stability.

He moved and touched another portion of the inner hull this time at a place close to the port. Again he examined the grime and found it apparently identical with the other. Wiping away the dirt he crossed the hold and paused at the door beyond. It led into the engine room and he could hear a succession of small sounds; metallic scrapings, a rustle, a drone of muttered curses, a ringing. Glancing inside he saw the engineer where he crouched before the dismantled bulk of the generator. The man was alone.

Another door led to the passage communicating with the cabins and leading to the salon and then on up to the control room and the normally restricted portions of the vessel. Dumarest glanced into the cabins as he trod softly along the passage. In one of them the steward lay on a bunk, light glistening from the transparent film on his cheek, his arm held awkwardly away from his body. As Dumarest entered the compartment he opened his eyes.

"Earl! What are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you're getting on. How's the arm?"

"It hurts."

"How did they treat it? With Staders?"

"I think so." The fingers flexed as the steward moved; visible proof of the metal splints which had been riveted to the bone on either side of the break to hold it firm. "I was out when they treated me but I guess that's what they must have done. The wound is sore, though, and it aches like hell."

"Let me have a look." Dumarest pursed his lips as he examined the wound. It was a neat gash, the only evidence of the surgery which had opened the flesh to permit the splints to be fitted, now neatly held by sutures which would become absorbed into the body. Gently he touched it to either side, pressing, easing the pressure as the man sucked in his breath. "That hurt?"

"Like fire. You think it's infected?"

The flesh was bruised and would have been rendered tender by the force of impact and the later treatment, but Dumarest didn't mention that. The man had a low pain level and it was easy to enhance his fears.

"It could be. Let me check again." This time he pressed harder and caused the man to grunt. "That's bad. It shouldn't hurt as much as that. Just once more."

"God!" The steward was sweating. "What's going to happen, Earl? I could lose the arm, become a cripple. Regrowths cost money I haven't got."

"Take it easy, man. It isn't as bad as that. I can fix it." Dumarest held out his hand. "Just give me the keys to the medical cabinet and I'll get what's needed and do what's to be done. Or do you keep your drugs in here?".

A chance, on small ships stewards tended to maintain their own medical supplies. The Sivas follower the custom.

"In that drawer. You'll find the key in the one below." The steward wiped his glistening forehead. "There isn't much."

An understatement. Dumarest looked at the neat rows of packages all bearing recent dates. He selected ampules and loaded a hypogun.

"Give me the arm." He fired local anesthetics directly through the skin and fat into the area around the wound, the hiss of the driving air blast a sharp sibilance. "Better?"

"Yes." The steward flexed his fingers. "You think that'll do it?"

"For now. Is Renzi or the captain around?"

"Damned if I know. Renzi should be helping Sharten and I guess the Old Man's busy in the town." The steward winced as he moved. "Are you sure you gave me enough?"

"Give it time. What's the latest on the repairs?"

"Nothing. Sharten's still not sure if he can manage without a replacement. Check with him if you want to know more. Me, all I want is to get rid of this damned pain. You sure you've done enough?"

"This will take care of it." Dumarest fired the hypogun at the man's throat "In three seconds you'll be asleep."

A sleep which he made sure would last by trebling the dose. Pocketing the hypogun Dumarest helped himself to various packages from the drawer, then, locking it, replaced the key where he had found it. Outside the cabin he closed the door then turned to face it as footsteps sounded from the higher reaches of the passage.

"Earl?" Renzi came toward him, his eyes vague. "A surprise to find you here, but life seems to be filled with many surprises of late. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, I came to see how the steward is getting on." Dumarest rapped on the door. "This is his cabin?"

"It is." The navigator pushed open the panel. "And he appears to be asleep. It would not be kind to wake him, my friend. You were not, I trust, thinking of seeing the captain?"

"No."

"You are wise. He is not in the best of moods. His pet has had the bad grace to destroy itself though I must admit I am not displeased. Only the manner of its passing disturbs me." Renzi smiled and steadied himself with a hand pressed against the bulkhead. "Did I say disturb?"

"What happened?"

"Borol is dead. The spined, horrible thing is no longer with us, but in dying it left its mark. You see, Earl, for some unaccountable reason, the creature decided to chew and tear its way into the radio. Perhaps it needed to eat and if so was doing well until it formed a bridge between two sources of power. Now, cremated, it is no more." Renzi smiled again then added, "And neither is our means of communication. Earl, my friend, I would advise you to find an amiable host-we could all be a long time on Ath."


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