Mr. Tsung sensed his presence and bobbed up from the floor. He bowed. “Lord Jonnie, meet my wife!”
The second person, a gray-haired Chinese woman with a kindly face, bobbed up, smiled, bowed. Jonnie bowed. It made his head feel bad. The woman popped down and went right back to work.
“Meet my daughter,” said Mr. Tsung.
The third person bobbed up, bowed. The daughter was a very beautiful Chinese girl, very delicate. She wore a flower in her hair. Jonnie bowed. It made his head feel worse. The girl sat down and went frantically back to work.
“Meet my son-in-law,” said Mr. Tsung.
A good-looking Chinese bobbed up from his bench with a clatter. He bowed. He was in the blue work uniform the mechanics wore. Jonnie bowed, very slightly so the room wouldn't spin. The young man popped down and sparks again flew from his tools.
Jonnie looked at them. They were working dedicatedly and with near ferocity on whatever they were doing. Jonnie felt a pang of sorrow. If this conference failed and if they lost, what suffering would await these decent people! These and the rest of the thirty-five thousand that were all that remained of the human race. He could not face the prospect of letting them down.
He went into his room. Somebody else had used those two hours. Angus, probably, and an electrician. A rack with three viewscreens now stood against the wall beyond the foot of his bed. A button camera had been placed in the ops room for one screen and he could see the huddled groups there, faces strained as they handled microphones and drone pictures and the operations board. Another button camera was trained on the conference room to broadcast to the second screen– the conference room was empty. The third button camera was on the platform and console and served the third screen.
Even as he looked, the Tolnep emissary arrived. He was in shimmering green; even his cap was green. But he had on dirty blue boots. Huge glasses hid his eyes. He carried a sort of scepter with a large knob at the top and a green hamper on green wheels for his food and supplies. A reptilian creature although he walked upright and had a face and arms and legs. A genetic line from dinosaurs that had become miniature and sentient?
He made his speech much like the Hockner, accepted the reply with an evil smile, folded his shimmering green cloak about his steel hard body, and was led away to a private apartment.
He looked like trouble.
Jonnie was about to throw himself down on the bed when he was suddenly obstructed. Mr. Tsung had followed him in. “No, no!” said Mr. Tsung. “Bath!”
Two Chinese had followed Mr. Tsung in. They had a steaming bath sitting on a mine dolly which they pushed to an empty spot on the floor before vanishing.
“I happen to be just about exhausted,” said Jonnie in protest. “I will just wash my face-'
Mr. Tsung slid around in front of him with a mirror. “Look!” demanded Mr. Tsung.
Jonnie looked. Mud. Explosive stains. The black silk sling he had been wearing was a tatter of light tan. Silt was all through his beard and hair. He looked down and saw that somewhere he must have walked up to his waist in ooze. He looked down at his hands and he could not even tell the color of his skin. He looked like something no dog would have dragged out of the village garbage dump.
“You win,” said Jonnie and wearily began to get out of his clothes. Mr. Tsung had a big mine bucket and as each garment was removed he dropped it with some distaste in the bucket, even the helmet and boots and guns.
Jonnie climbed into the bath. It was not long enough to stretch out his legs but the water came up to his chest. He had never had a hot bath before, only rivers and cold mountain streams. He felt the exhaustion oozing out of him. Indeed, he found with some surprise, there was much you could say in favor of hot baths!
Avoiding the bandage on the arm, Mr.
Tsung scrubbed industriously with a lathering soap and a brush. Suddenly he stopped work and there was a whispered consultation back of Jonnie. Then a touch on the top of each of Jonnie's shoulders. Another consultation and one of Jonnie's arms was held out by Mr. Tsung and a piece of string was stretched down the length of it.
Jonnie was momentarily horrified to realize the daughter was behind him and he was naked in a tub! He turned his head but the daughter was gone. Mr. Tsung scrubbed on. He washed Jonnie's hair and beard.
Twice more the bath was stopped. Once to put a string around his chest. The second time to put a string down the side of his leg.
Eventually Mr. Tsung dried his hair and beard with a towel and then wrapped a bigger one around Jonnie as he stepped out of the tub. He dried Jonnie off, having to jump up a bit to really get the shoulders now that Jonnie was standing. He put Jonnie in a soft, blue robe and only then permitted him to lie down on the bed.
Thankful to stretch out at last, avoiding even looking at the screens, Jonnie was interrupted again.
It was Dr. MacKendrick and Dr. Allen. The robe was loose and they got his arm out. Dr. Allen cut off the bandage, cleaned the area with alcohol that stung the nose– probably whiskey of not too good a distillation– poured some white powder in the wound and then made him eat some of it. More sulfa! Mr. Tsung was there with a bowl of soup while Dr. Allen put on a fresh bandage.
Then the two doctors stood back. Jonnie, wise in such medical manners, began to suspect they were up to something. They had that false joviality doctors assume just before they take you by surprise and do something gruesome.
“I always thought,” said Dr. Allen, “that Dunneldeen and Stormalong were wild. But I was out there when you blew that cliff in. You are the wild one, Jonnie Tyler. Do you always use a battle plane to light fuses?”
Jonnie was about to inform him somewhat austerely that there had been no time at all to rig fuses when Dr. MacKendrick moved closer.
“I suppose,” said MacKendrick, “it just seemed more natural to him.” A remark calculated to distract.
And he took the long needle he had been holding behind him and, seizing Jonnie's wrist, slid two inches of steel into a vein and pumped a full syringe of something into Jonnie's blood.
"Ow!" said Jonnie. “That wasn't fair! You know I don't like your needles.” The stuff burned like fire in his vein.
“That's for your dizziness,” said Dr. MacKendrick, smugly cleaning the needle. “It’s some stuff we found called 'B Complex.' The venom and the relaxant and this sulfa all rob the system of it. You'll feel much better very shortly.”
"I’ve got enough to do,” said Jonnie, a bit cross, “without being shot full of holes.”
Dr. Allen laid a hand on his shoulder. “That's just it,” he said.
“You've got far, far too much to worry about and to do. You've got to learn to let others help you. Let them contribute as well. You do splendidly. Let others help too!” He gave Jonnie a pat on the shoulder and they left.
The soup had made his stomach feel better. After a bit he raised his head and bobbed it. He wasn't as dizzy as he had been.
Another couple of emissaries had arrived on the platform. The ops room looked frantic. He was worried about this coming conference. Jonnie thought he had lain around long enough.
"Tsung!" he called. “Please get out my best buckskin suit.” Yes, he would let someone else contribute. Mr. Tsung could dig up his buckskins.
The result was totally unexpected. Mr. Tsung flashed in, drew himself up to his full five feet, and said, “No!”
Then he struggled to find more words from his meager store of English. “They lords!” He couldn't say what he wanted to say.
An amazed Jonnie saw Mr. Tsung tear out of the room and come back in a moment with a Coordinator for the Chinese, one who spoke Mandarin. Mr. Tsung was blazing away at the Coordinator with every shot in his magazine. Mr. Tsung died down. The Coordinator opened his mouth to speak. Mr. Tsung thought of something else, battered the Coordinator with it, and only then stood back with a “so there” expression and put his hands in his sleeves and bowed.