Titus interrupted, suddenly realizing how smoothly he’d been led away from his question. “Of course I do, but you’re not being totally honest, H’lim. You’re intent on going home, but you don’t want to be associated with us-with Earth’s luren– after that. And I want to know why.”

“Don’t be too hasty,” cautioned H’lim as he surveyed the bathroom. “Earth’s luren could be a market for my orl.”

“Not big enough to matter.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I tell you one thing that makes me uncomfortable. Mirelle. She wears an orl-mark and acts like a teacher. She’s Dr. de Lisle sent to teach me of human communication and she wears an orl-mark which isn’t mine.”

“Does that make you hungry?”

“Hungry? I’m always hungry. But not for humans. I’ve traveled widely, Titus, but I’ve never run into anything that discomforted me so. I think I would sell you orl at a loss, just so I could feel good about myself again.”

He did it again, thought Titus as he wanted to ask what H’lim would accept in payment-art curios? “Selling us orl wouldn’t compromise your position in the galaxy?”

“What?” H’lim seemed genuinely confused, and not just because he’d turned his attention to his new console.

“You are reluctant to be associated with us, yet you’d sell us orl?”

“Hypothetically, Titus, hypothetically. In reality, Earth’s trade status will be decided by law as will the status of Earth’s luren. It’s a complex matter, and I’m not qualified to try to explain it. Those whose profession it is to integrate new worlds into galactic trade have equations to calculate how much contact a culture can stand, how quickly, what products, what sequences. As a merchant, I look up what I may sell and what I may buy with it on any given world. I don’t always try to understand why this and not that. But I do understand my own field and how to introduce it to new cultures. I make good money as a consultant in such matters, and we’re usually first on the scene.”

And again! marveled Titus and retreated, knowing when he’d been bested. “We should go back and see how the lab’s coming.”

“Wait,” said H’lim. “What’s this?” He bent over his vidcom. The screen showed a tricolor graphic of a stomping bull against the stars.

Titus leaned over his shoulder. “Inea’s playing games.” He told of her demonstration program, then made some suggestions. Inea got the signal and responded. They spent a few hours troubleshooting connections and teaching H’lim the remote commands he had available. In the course of this, they discovered the central files Colby had assigned for H’lim’s use, and Titus began showing him what records a department head was responsible for keeping.

“I think Dr. Colby was right. I need a secretary.”

Using the link, Titus found out that Abbot was almost through supervising the setup of the lab, and told Inea to go get some dinner and meet him at his apartment to discuss the reports Colby wanted tomorrow. Then he escorted H’lim back to his lab and left him with Abbot, not without some trepidation. But Mihelich was also there, along with an ever-changing mob of technicians. Can’t be with him every minute, he told himself and bid them good evening.

He stopped by the refectory nearest home and picked up a dinner tray, one much lighter than usual. Already the rationing program was cutting allotments.

When he arrived at his own apartment, he found Inea swabbing out the microwave, her own refectory tray on the table.

“Ought to do this more often,” she said, pushing a wisp of hair back with her wrist.

He took the towel and pushed a chair behind her knees. “You’re exhausted. I’ll do that. It’s my stinking mess after all. You’re right. Shouldn’t let it get this bad.”

She dropped into the chair, yielding the chore to him but saying, “I’m not as tired as Mirelle. That woman’s out on her feet. And it’s not just from following H’lim around.”

Titus whipped his head around. Her eyes were closed. She didn’t see his reaction. He stuck his head into the microwave looking for a way to pull the roof of the cavity out for cleaning. “I didn’t know you realized H’lim is drawing ectoplasm from everyone around him.”

“You as much as told me so. Besides, he’s draining to be with. Not like you. You’re stimulating.”

“I keep telling you. You can’t just feed me. You must accept my gift in return. H’lim can’t offer, but he’s starving.”

“But Abbot’s not starving, and he has sex with Mirelle. Why’s she looking like a corpse?”

He got the top loose and stuck it in the sink with the other parts that needed soaking, resolving never to try reheating blood again. Concentrating, Titus rinsed and replaced the parts. At least rationing hadn’t tightened the water allowance. The recyclers were efficient enough.

“Titus, you’re not answering me.”

“He’s taking too much of her blood. He doesn’t have enough stringers, and apparently he likes Mirelle.”

“That’s how he treats people he likes?”

“Yes. It is.”

After a long silence during which Titus heated himself some water, she said, “That’s why you left him.”

“Yes.”

He heard the tone of his voice and wasn’t surprised when she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, Inea. But nothing’s-simple-anymore.”

“I know what you mean.”

“No you don’t. Inea, you came to me because I convinced you of my loyalties. I’m not so sure they’re so solid as I thought. Maybe-maybe I’m not human. Maybe you have been sleeping with an alien from outer space after all and not the boy next door you were about to marry. I just don’t know!”

Her mouth fell open.

The microwave bleeped. The painful silence held Titus rigid until the echo died away. Feeling as if his body would shatter, he forced himself to extract the pitcher of water, dump in half a packet of crystals and stack both plates of food in the microwave. Punching up a reheat, he said, “From now on, you’ll eat my rations so I don’t have to discard scarce food.” What does a microwave sound like to H’lim?

She still hadn’t breathed a word, and he felt as if her eyes were boring holes in his back. He fled into the bathroom to hunt for the supply of supplements he’d brought in case he needed stringers for blood. Connie had insisted. He had to ransack the medicine chest because he’d forgotten what they were disguised as. Some secret agent!

When he returned, Inea was clutching the pitcher to her breast, bent over it protectively. It took a moment for him to realize that she was crying. Eyes closed, wooden-faced, almost not breathing, she sat with tears dripping from her chin into the pitcher.

He felt more helpless than he ever had before in his life. Me and my big mouth.

He brought his glass over to the table and took the pitcher from her hands, pressing the bottle of pills into her palm as she raised streaming eyes to him. “These are for Mirelle, if you can get her to take them without anyone else knowing-not even Abbot. Especially not Abbot.”

She swallowed hard, blinking at the bottle dazedly.

“Ignore the label. It’s a supplement specially designed to replenish blood. Just vitamins, nothing like what H’lim’s been talking about.”

Unaccountably embarrassed by her silence, he poured blood into his glass and drank it down, praying for the microwave to bleep. He could taste her tears in the diluted blood and the acrid tang of her pain. Almost gagging, he poured another glass before it got cold.

Tear-choked, she rasped, “Why?” and shook the bottle.

Why? Because he couldn’t stand to see Inea suffer? Because he’d wanted Mirelle himself? Because he hated Abbot? Or because of the inexorable physical bond to his father that made him unable to stand to see Abbot starving?

He turned to inspect the microwave timer. “Because I trust you with my life, with the lives of all Earth’s luren. Because I’m confused. I don’t know whether H’lim is lying about everything or only some things. Because I don’t know whether I really ought to stop Abbot’s message. Will Earth’s luren be more likely to survive if Abbot’s message is sent, or not sent? Should we survive at all? It used to be such a simple issue! Now, I just don’t know. Only one thing is certain. Whether Earth’s luren live or die should be decided by Earth’s humans-victims and volunteers alike. Have we taken more than we’ve given Earth? Or have we given more than we’ve taken? Considering what we take and how we take it, does it even matter whether we pay our way or not?”