"You've come to see us? Well, what about that! Did you hear what happened to me?"
"You lost an eye," said Dumarest. "In combat that makes you a liability. Are they giving you a new one?"
"Sure. It's growing now. In a few days I'll be as good as new."
As would they all. Zabul didn't lack for trained doctors and expensive drugs; slow time alone would promote quick healing, the metabolism accelerated to turn seconds into hours. Sedated, fed by intravenous injection, the most badly injured would wake healed if hungry.
Dumarest led the way down the line, speaking to each in turn, waiting as Medwin did the same. Back at the door he turned and lifted an arm in a farewell salute.
"You've done well," he said. "All of you. You've shown courage and you've accepted your misfortune. But I hope you've learned from it. Like I said earlier, an injury makes a combat soldier a liability. In actual conflict some of you would have had to be abandoned. Just remember that the next time you want to take a chance-sometimes the odds aren't worth it."
As they neared the exit Dumarest said, "You go ahead, Erik. Get those uniforms adapted as I suggested. And we want no more injuries, understand?"
"Yes, Commander!"
"Off you go then."
Dumarest returned the vague salute and went in search of the infirmary's biological technician. The man was in his laboratory, his face intent, as he examined the projected image of a slide.
"From one of the young fools who tried to get themselves killed," he explained. "An unsuspected infection which must be dealt with."
"A mutation?"
Sneh Thome nodded. He was a round man with a face normally placid but now creased in lines of concentration.
"It could well be that. I'm trying a wide range of antibiotics so as to effect a cure without recourse to surgery but if the infection becomes too widespread we'll have to remove the affected area and grow a replacement from uncontaminated tissue." He snapped off the projection and straightened, easing his back. "What we really need, of course, is a general-purpose antibiotic which will destroy all objects foreign to the basic DNA cellular imprint."
"Coupled with a regenerative agent to replace all damaged and missing tissue to the same plan?"
"It would save all doctors a hell of a lot of work," admitted Thorne. "In fact it could almost put us out of business. A man gets hurt and he crawls into a corner somewhere to eat and sleep while his body repairs itself. No scar tissue, no maladjusted bone structure. No areas of fibroid encystment. An eye, an arm, a leg or an internal organ all regenerating to match the basic pattern. If the liver can do it why not other organs? And what, for example, has a lobster got that we haven't? A creature like that can regrow a claw but we can't even regenerate a finger."
"We aren't lobsters," reminded Dumarest,
"No, sometimes I think we're a damned sight worse. What other creature would deliberately set out to injure itself? Those fools in the ward have given us more work than we've known for the past century. And that isn't counting the scrapes and bruises and minor lacerations. The strains and minor hemorrhages and psychic damage. You're a menace, Earl. As much a danger to our society as that damned bacteria!"
"Which by its presence is triggering the body to manufacture a defense."
"True." Thorne ran a hand over his rumpled hair. "I guess I'm just tired. Life goes on and on and nothing ever seemed to happen and then, suddenly, I'm faced with challenges."
Dumarest said, "That's what makes life exciting. Did you manage to do as I asked?"
"Another challenge."
"Did you?"
"It's in the small laboratory," said Thorne reluctantly. "Everything you asked for, but God knows what you intend doing with it." Pausing, he added, "Are you certain you can manage alone?"
"I'll make out."
"If you need assistance I'll be willing to help." Thome looked hopefully at Dumarest then sighed as he recognized the other's determination. "No? Well, as you want. I guess it's your business. I'll show you the way."
The place was small but well-equipped. Alone, Dumarest examined the gleaming apparatus, the vials and containers, the microscopes and manipulative devices. Things which hypno-tuition had taught him to use. Materials and knowledge which could save his life.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brandt had gone, leaving behind the acrid scent of her perfume, accentuated by the exudations of age, but she had been reasonable and had taken little prompting to recognize the danger. Lijert too had been swayed after some discussion but he, like the woman, had been old and already uneasily aware of the passage of time. Days and weeks edged into months, eating at their reserves, lopping years from their anticipated life-spans. Brandt and Lijert were two of the committee who would back him without argument and he felt Stanton could be another, for he was a man who resented the disturbance of old patterns despite his relative youth. He had found the burden of responsibility more irksome than he'd guessed, not even suspecting that the tiresome routine beneath which he chafed had been deliberately imposed.
Who else would help him to take over sole command?
Urick Volodya pondered this problem as he crossed the room to stand looking down at the men set in a neat array on the chessboard resting on a table fashioned of convoluted woods inlaid with metallic ornamentation.
Towitsch? Prideaux? The girl was a fanatic and her opposite number little better, but if a wedge could be driven between them it was possible one would vote from reasons of malice rather than from calculated decision. Did Towitsch love Dumarest? A possibility and one holding promise. If so she could let jealousy turn her against Hesford. But what of Prideaux?
Reaching down, Volodya moved the pieces in the opening moves of an established game. How easy it would be if people could be manipulated like the pieces on the board? And yet did he need to feel such concern? The old ways had gone and now was the time of opportunity. He had recognized it and made his move. It was but one further step to the consolidation of his power.
Why worry about pawns?
The men scattered beneath the sweep of his hand and he turned to pace the floor, tall, arrogant, his hooded eyes and beaked nose giving him the look of an imperious bird of prey, Dumarest noted when, ushered by guards, he stepped into the room.
It was large, a chamber chosen to reflect the personality of its occupant, and he looked at the soft coverings on the floor, the ornate furniture, the scattered chessmen lying in gold and silver disarray.
"Earl!" Volodya stepped forward, smiling, hands extended in the traditional gesture. "You will have wine? Some cakes? The formalities need to be observed. And a chair-there is no need for you to stand. All I want to do is talk. We have reason for a discussion, I think. You agree?"
"Haven't you been kept informed of progress?"
"I've had reports." Volodya lost his smile. "But from you hardly a word. I think it time we rectified the matter. Come! Have some wine!"
He poured and handed Dumarest a goblet of silver chased with gold. The wine itself was sweet with a rich body and an aftertaste of mint.
Dumarest sipped then said, "I see you've a liking for chess."
"Yes. Do you play?"
"I know the game. Some claim it to be a symbolic battle and say those who play good chess will make good commanders in time of war." He added dryly, "Those who think that have never experienced a field of conflict."
"We know little of war."
"And power?" Dumarest took another sip of his wine. "Certain things seem to be universal. The love of authority, for example. Couple it with a lack of responsibility and you have a lure few can resist. Of course, it has its dangers."
"Such as?"
"Rebellion. Assassination." Dumarest ate a cake. "The fruit of defiance, disobedience and distrust. Dangers a wise ruler avoids."
A warning? Dumarest was more subtle than he seemed and, Volodya guessed, far more devious than he appeared. To underestimate him could be the worst mistake he would ever make. The worst and, perhaps, the last.
"How is your nephew getting on?" Dumarest was casual. "Alva Kirek, the one in the Earth Corps."