His will kept him going, but the weakness and dizziness were returning. And now, the ramp was moving! They were preparing for takeoff!
Dane made a convulsive effort, gained the end of the ramp and then the hatch. He could not reach his own cabin in time to strap down. Where? Van Ryke’s was the nearest—up ladder.
His own body was the enemy he must fight. Dane was dimly aware of the struggle with the ladder, of half falling through a cabin door, of reaching the bunk and dropping on it. Then he blacked out.
No dream now of wading through an adhesive swamp or veils of steam. There was a heavy pressure on his chest, smothering him, a harsh rasping on his chin. Dane opened his eyes to stare into inquisitive feline ones. Sinbad, ship’s cat, nosed him again, kneaded his paws on Dane under his own portly frame with vigor enough to bring a protest out of the man.
There was the familiar vibration, though. This was Sinbad. He had reached the Queen, and they were out in space. A vast relief flooded through Dane.
Then, for the first time he was able to think farther than just reaching the ship before it lifted. He had gone to make a registered pickup. And somewhere he had been jumped and robbed. Before or after he had made the pickup? A new worry presented itself. If he had signed for it, then he, or rather the Queen, was responsible for the loss. The sooner he reported to Captain Jellico, the better.
“Yes,” he said aloud, pushing Sinbad away to sit up. “Got to see the Old Man—”
His first awakening in the inn had been tough. This was almost as bad. He had to hold onto the bunk and close his eyes, not sure if he could move. There was the com on the wall. Get to that, call for help— Poison? Could they—the mysterious they—or he—or it—who had initiated his attack have used poison on him? Once before he had been so wracked, on Sargol, when, by native custom as a successful Gorp hunter, he had shared a ceremonial drink—to pay for that compliance later. Tau—Medic Tau—
Dane set his teeth, grasped Van Ryke’s file of micro films, which jutted conveniently from the wall, and pulled himself up. He managed to jerk the mike from its hook, but when it came to thumbing the button for sick bay, he could not be sure—they were a blur. He had to chance it.
Now that he was up, he was almost afraid to return to the bunk. The waves of sickness seemed less overpowering when he was on his feet. Maybe if he tried now to get around—Besides, he had to report to Jellico, must do that—
He heard a warning growl from Sinbad as his foot touched something soft. And the big cat, his dignity injured by interference with his tail, slapped back, his claws grating on Dane’s space boot.
“Sorry.” Dane, trying to avoid the rest of Sinbad’s bulk, staggered forward, out of the door, into the well of the ladder. He held out groping hands for that. Captain—must report—
“What the—?”
Dane had not trodden on the head of the man climbing up, but it was a near thing. As with Sinbad, he tried to avoid collision and swung out so far he would have fallen had not the newcomer caught him. Ali Kamil’s finely featured face swung back and forth in Dane’s sight, but then the assistant engineer’s tough grip steadied him.
“Got—to—report,” Dane said. “See—Captain—”
“What by the Five Names of Stayfol!” Kamil supported him back against the wall. His face was clear and then blurred in Dane’s sight.
“See Jellico—” Dane repeated. He knew he was saying that, but he could not hear his own voice. Nor could he twist free from Kamil’s grip.
“Down—come on—”
Not down—up! He had to go to see Jellico—
He was on the ladder. He must have made Ali understand. Only, they were going down—down—up—in space which was which? Dane shook his head to clear it, and that only made it worse, so that he dared not move at all, but clung to the ladder, a sole anchor in a spinning world.
Hands pulled at him. He heard talking, only the words had no meaning.
“Report—” With a vast effort he got that out in a rasping whisper.
There were two of them with him, Ali and someone else. Dane dared not turn his head to see. And they were steering him to a cabin door. Ali pushed that back, and they entered, Dane limp between them.
Then for a stark moment the mists were gone, wiped away. He hung between the two who had supported him, but he could see, as if the shock of what lay on the bunk had pulled him out of the dizzy spin of the sickness.
The sleeper lay quietly, acceleration straps still about him as if he had not recovered from takeoff. His tunic—his head—the face—
Dane gave a jerk that loosened the grasp of those with him. Their astonishment must have been as great as his. He stumbled forward the step or two to the bunk to stare down at the man who lay there, eyes closed, apparently asleep or unconscious. Then, holding on with one hand to keep his precarious balance, Dane reached out the other to assure himself by touch that someone did lie there, that his eyes were not playing tricks on him, for the face against the raised end of the bunk was the one he saw in mirrors. He was looking down at—himself!
There was solid flesh and bone meeting the prod of his finger. But if a body did lie there, the face—was that a dream out of his illness? Dane turned his head. Kamil was there, and with him Frank Mura, the cook steward. Both of them were staring at the man on the bunk.
“No!” Dane choked out a denial of what he saw. “I’m—I’m—me! I’m Dane Thorson.” And he recited the same formula that had come to him in the inn on his first waking into the nightmare.
“Dane Thorson, assistant cargo master, the free trader Solar Queen, Terra registry 65-724910-JK.” His ident disk! He had that as proof. Now he got it out of his belt pocket, held it so they might see it, too, and know that he was Dane Thorson. But if he was Dane Thorson, then who—
“What is going on?”
Tau! Medic Tau! With relief Dane hunched around, still keeping his hold on the bunk lest he sprawl on the floor. Tau would know who he was. Why, he and Craig Tau had gone through almost as bad as this together—on Khatka.
“I’m Dane,” he said. “I can prove it. You’re Craig Tau, and we were on Khatka, where you used magic to make Limbulo hunt himself. And—and”—he pointed with the ident disk to Ali, his hand shaking as he did it—“you’re Ali Kamil, and we found you trapped in a maze on Limbo. And you, you’re Frank Mura. You piped us into that maze.” There, he must have proved it. No one but Dane Thorson would know all that. They must believe him now.
But then who—what—lay on his bunk, wearing his tunic—because it was his. There was the mend he had done by thoro-weave three days ago. He was Dane Thorson—
“I am Dane Thorson—” Not only were his hands shaking now; his whole body quivered. And he was going to be sick again. He couldn’t help it. Maybe—maybe this was all some kind of crazy dream!
“Steady! Get him, Kamil.” Tau was with him. Then he was in the fresher once more, vomiting.
“Can you hold him?” He heard Tau’s voice faintly as if it came from a distance. “I’ll have to get a shot. He’s been—”
“Poisoned, I think,” Dane heard himself say. But whether he spoke aloud, he could not tell. At the same moment the lights went out.
For the third time he roused, but this time lazily. It was not Sinbad’s weight on his chest and the cat’s rasping tongue that drew him back to consciousness. Rather it was a feeling of peace, as if he had thrown off some burden. And for a long moment he was content until memory began its irritating prick-prick of summons to full awareness.
There was something—something about a report to the captain. Dane’s thoughts uncoiled sluggishly. He opened his eyes, turned his head a little, and things dropped into focus. He was in sick bay. Though he had never lain here before, the cabin was familiar. He stirred, and the medic came into Dane’s line of vision.