"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."
Chapter Ten
From where she sat on the dais Sardia said, "I'm getting stiff, Cornelius. May I move now?"
"Later." He was being unfair and knew it. Setting down his brush he said, "I'm sorry, of course you may move. I've been thoughtless but time has passed so quickly. Forgive me?"
"For what? Asking me to model for you? That is a compliment. I shall live forever immortalized by your genius."
"You exaggerate."
"No."
Deliberately she drew in her breath before rising to stand, to stretch with arms upraised, the light from the great window adding richer tints to the smoothness of her flesh. She was nude aside from a drape around her hips, the proud contours of her breasts now catching the glow from the painted, sunset sky, the brown of her skin accentuating the shimmer of diverse color. Beauty personified, he thought, watching her. The loveliest creature he had ever seen. Why was it so hard to capture her image in paint?
He looked at what he had so far accomplished and fought the inclination to tear the canvas from the easel and destroy the mockery it contained. Were these lines and daubs the best he could do? Did those scrawls and dabs depict the loveliness which now stood before him?
Was his talent so small that he was unable even to convey what was real to the world where he had thought himself a master?
"No," she said quickly as his hand lifted. "No!"
"It's useless!"
"It's a beginning." She moved with her dancer's grace to stand at his side, eyes narrowed as she studied what he had done. "A good beginning."
Nonsense and she knew it-who could tell what a good beginning was in the realm of art? A scrawl which would not dignify the literary status of an idiot could be nursed and nurtured to form an epic when handled by a master. A few lines, a scatter of notes, an insignificant chord and a symphony could be born. And even though the canvas held little of apparent worth the feeling was there, the striving, the reaching out and the aspiration.
As she was the inspiration.
"It doesn't do you justice," said Cornelius. "Nothing created by human hands could ever do that. You are sublime in what you are. The ultimate of perfection; flawless in every way."
"I am a woman, Cornelius."
"So?"
"No woman is without fault and never make the mistake of believing you have found one who is. May I dress now?"
A request he could not refuse and it had been polite of her to ask. A subtle way in which to let him know that he was the master as well as the host. A courtesy which he recognized and appreciated as he appreciated her willingness to pose for him. Had he asked or had she offered? He couldn't remember and the details didn't matter. It had happened. For the first time it had happened.
And, for the first time, he was in love.
Sardia could sense it as she dressed, recognizing the atmosphere, the slightest tension which ruled his every movement; the little gestures quickly controlled, the words which came a little too fast and were too plentiful; masks for their real meaning, the thoughts they covered. A familiar situation-always there had been those crowding her dressing room entranced with the glamor which accompanied her. Love born of illusion, those experiencing it confusing the performances for the reality. A madness which left most unharmed but which, badly handled, had caused pain and death to others.
Would he kill her if she should refuse him?
She said quietly, "Cornelius, don't misunderstand me, but I think it would be better if I were hosted by someone else. Ursula, perhaps."