Dalt hesitated, not quite sure whether the barrage had come to an end. "It doesn't look good," he said finally.
"And why not?"
"Because I couldn't find a trace of the ship itself. Oh, there's evidence of some sort of craft having been there a while back, but it must have gotten off-planet again, because there's not a trace of wreckage to be found."
Clarkson looked puzzled. "Not even a trace?"
"Nothing."
The project director pondered this a moment, then shrugged. "We'll have to figure that one out later. But right now you should know that we picked up another signal from the brain's life-support system while you were off on your joyride—"
"It wasn't a joyride," Dalt declared. A few moments with Clarkson always managed to rub his nerves raw. "I ran into a pack of unfriendly locals and had to hide in a cave."
"Be that as it may," Clarkson said, returning to his desk chair, "we're now certain that the brain, or what's left of it, is on Kwashi."
"Yes, but where on Kwashi? It's not exactly an asteroid, you know."
"We've almost pinpointed its location," Barre broke in excitedly. "Very close to the site you inspected."
"It's in Bendelema, I hope," Dalt said.
"Why?" Clarkson asked.
"Because when I was on cultural survey down there I posed as a soldier of fortune—a mercenary of sorts— and Duke Kile of Bendelema was a former employer. I'm known and liked in Bendelema. I'm not at all popular in Tependia because they're the ones I fought against. I repeat: It's in Bendelema, I hope."
Clarkson nodded. "It's in Bendelema."
"Good!" Dalt exhaled with relief. "That makes everything much simpler. I've got an identity in Bendelema: Racso the mercenary. At least that's a starting place."
"And you'll start tomorrow," Clarkson said. "We've wasted too much time as it is. If we don't get that prototype back and start coming up with some pretty good reasons for the malfunction, Star Ways just might cancel the project. There's a lot riding on you, Dalt. Remember that."
Dalt turned toward the door. "Who'll let me forget?" he remarked with a grim smile. "I'll check in with you before I leave."
"Good enough," Clarkson said with a curt nod, then turned to Barre. "Hold on a minute, Barre. I want to go over a few things with you." Dalt gladly closed the door on the pair.
"It's almost lunchtime," said a feminine voice behind him. "How about it?"
In a single motion, Dalt spun, leaned over Jean's desk, and gave her a peck on the lips. "Sorry, can't. It may be noon to all of you on ship-time, but it's some hellish hour of the morning to me. I've got to drop in on the doc, then I've got to get some sleep."
But Jean wasn't listening. Instead, she was staring fixedly at the bald spot on Dalt's head. "Steve!" she cried. "What happened?"
Dalt straightened up abruptly. "Nothing much. Something landed on it while I was below and the hair fell out. It'll grow back, don't worry."
"I'm not worried about that," she said, standing up and trying to get another look. But Dalt kept his head high. "Did it hurt?"
"Not at all. Look, I hate to run off like this, but I've got to get some sleep. I'm going back down tomorrow."
Her face fell. "So soon?"
"I'm afraid so. Why don't we make it for dinner tonight. I'll drop by your room and we'll go from there. The caf isn't exactly a restaurant, but if we get there late we can probably have a table all to ourselves."
"And after that?" she asked coyly.
"I'll be damned if we're going to spend my last night on ship for who-knows-how-long in the vid theater!"
Jean smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that."
("What odd physiological rumblings that female stirs in you!") the voice said as Dalt walked down the corridor to the medical offices. He momentarily broke stride at the sound of it. He'd almost forgotten that he had company.
"That's none of your business!" he muttered through tight lips.
("I'm afraid much of what you do is my business. I'm not directly connected with you emotionally, but physically ... what you feel, I feel; what you see, I see; what you taste—")
"Okay! Okay!"
("You're holding up rather well, actually. Better than I would have expected.")
"Probably my cultural-survey training. They taught me how to keep my reactions under control when faced with an unusual situation."
("Glad to hear it. We may well have a long relationship ahead of us if you don't go the way of most high-order intelligences and suicidally reject me. We can look on your body as a small business and the two of us as partners.")
"Partners!" Dalt said, somewhat louder than he wished. Luckily, the halls were deserted. "This is my body!"
("If it will make you happier, I'll revise my analogy: You're the founder of the company and I've just bought my way in. How's that sound, Partner?")
"Lousy!"
("Get used to it,") the voice singsonged. "Why bother? You won't be in there much longer. The doc'll see to that!"
("He won't find a thing, Steve.") "We'll see."
The door to the medical complex swished open when Dalt touched the operating plate and he passed into a tiny waiting room.
"What can we do for you, Mr. Dalt?" the nurse-receptionist said. Dalt was a well-known figure about the ship by now.
He inclined his head toward the woman and pointed to the bald spot. "I want to see the doc about this. I'm going below tomorrow and I want to get this cleared up before I do. So if the doc's got a moment, I'd like to see him."
The nurse smiled. "Right away." At the moment, Dalt was a very important man. He was the only one on ship legally allowed on Kwashi. If he thought he needed a doctor, he'd have one.
A man in a traditional white medical coat poked his head through one of the three doors leading from the waiting room, in answer to the nurse's buzz.
"What is it, Lorraine?" he asked.
"Mr. Dalt would like to see you, Doctor."
He glanced at Dalt. "Of course. Come in, Mr. Dalt. I'm Dr. Graves." The doctor showed him into a small, book-and-microfilm-lined office. "Have a seat, will you? I'll be with you in a minute."