The diagnostat produced an ultrasonic node and injected a golden fluid into Rawlins’ rump. Pain-damper, Muller guessed. A second injection, deep amber, was probably some kind of all-purpose antibiotic to ward off infection. Rawlings grew visibly less tense. Now a variety of arms sprang forward from various sectors of the device, inspecting Rawlins’ lesions in detail and scanning them for necessary repairs. There was a humming sound and three sharp clicks. Then the diagnostat began to seal the wounds, clamping them firmly.
“Lie still,” Muller told him. “You’ll be all right in a couple of minutes.”
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” said Rawlins. “We have our own medical supplies back in camp. You must be running short on necessities. All you had to do was let the drone probe take me back to my camp, and—”
“I don’t want those robots crawling around in here. And the diagnostat has at least a fifty-year supply of usefuls. I don’t get sick often. It can synthesize most of what it’s ever going to need for me. So long as I feed it protoplasm from time to time, it can do the rest.”
“At least let us send you replacements for some of the rare drugs.”
“Not necessary. No charity wanted. Ah! There, it’s done with you. Probably you won’t even have scars.”
The machine released Rawlins, who swung away from it and looked up at Muller. The wildness was gone from the boy’s face now. Muller lounged against the wall, rubbing his shoulderblades against the angle where two faces of the hexagon met, and said, “I didn’t think that you’d be attacked by beasts or I wouldn’t have left you alone so long. You aren’t armed?”
“No.”
“Scavengers don’t bother living things. What made them go after you?”
“The cage did,” Rawlins said. “It began to broadcast the smell of rotting flesh. A lure. Suddenly they were crawling all over me. I thought they’d eat me alive.”
Muller grinned. “Interesting. So the cage is programmed as a trap too. We get some useful information out of your little predicament, then. I can’t tell you how interested I am in those cages. In every part of this weird environment of mine. The aqueduct. The calendar pylons. The streetcleaning apparatus. I’m grateful to you for helping me learn a little.”
“I know someone else who has that attitude,” said Rawlins. “That it doesn’t matter what the risk or cost so long as you collect some useful data out of the experience. Board—”
He cut the word short with a crisp biting gesture.
“Who?”
“Bordoni,” Rawlins said. “Emilio Bordoni, my epistemology professor at college. He gave this marvelous course. Actually it was applied hermeneutics, a course in how to learn.”
“That’s heuristics,” said Muller.
“Are you sure? I have a distinct impression—”
“It’s wrong,” said Muller. “You’re talking to an authority. Hermeneutics is the art of interpretation. Originally Scriptural interpretation but now applying to all communications functions. Your father would have known that. My mission to the Hydrans was an experiment in applied hermeneutics. It wasn’t successful.”
“Heuristics. Hermeneutics.” Rawlins laughed. “Well, anyway, I’m glad to have helped you learn something about the cages. My heuristic good deed. Am I excused from the next round?”
“I suppose,” Muller said. Somehow an odd feeling of good will had come over him. He had almost forgotten how pleasant it was to be able to help another person. Or to enjoy lazy, irrelevant conversation. He said, “Do you drink, Ned?”
“Alcoholic beverages?”
“So I mean.”
“In moderation.”
“This is our local liqueur,” said Muller. “It’s produced by gnomes somewhere in the bowels of the planet.” He produced a delicate flask and two wide-mouthed goblets. Carefully he tipped about twenty centiliters into each goblet. “I get this in Zone C,” he explained, handing Rawlins his drink. “It rises from a fountain. It really ought to be labeled DRINK ME, I guess.”
Gingerly Rawlins tasted it. “Strong!”
“About sixty per cent alcohol, yes. Lord knows what the rest of it is, or how it’s synthesized or why. I simply accept it. I like the way it manages to be both sweet and gingery at the same time. It’s terribly intoxicating, of course. It’s intended as another trap, I suppose. You get happily drunk—and then the maze gets you.” He raised his goblet amiably. “Cheers!”
“Cheers!”
They laughed at the archaic toast and drank.
Careful, Dickie, Muller told himself. You’re getting downright sociable with this boy. Remember where you are. And why. What kind of ogre are you, acting this way?
“May I take some of this back to camp with me?” Rawlins asked.
“I suppose so. Why?”
“There’s a man there who’d appreciate it. He’s a gourmet of sorts. He’s traveling with a liquor console that dispenses a hundred different drinks, I imagine, from about forty different worlds. I can’t even remember the names.”
“Anything from Marduk?” Muller asked. “The Deneb worlds? Rigel?”
“I really can’t be sure. I mean, I enjoy drinking, but I’m no connoisseur.”
“Perhaps this friend of yours would be willing to exchange—” Muller stopped. “No. No. Forget I said that. I’m not getting into any deals.”
“You could come back to camp with me,” said Rawlins. “He’d give you the run of the console, I’m sure.”
“Very subtle of you. No.” Muller glowered at his liqueur. “I won’t be eased into it, Ned. I don’t want anything to do with the others.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Another drink?”
“No. I’ll have to start getting back to camp now. It’s late. I wasn’t supposed to spend the whole day here, and I’ll catch hell for not doing my share of the work.”
“You were in the cage most of the day. They can’t blame you for that.”
“They might. They were complaining a little yesterday. I don’t think they want me to visit you.” Muller felt a sudden tightness within.
Rawlins went on, “After the way I kicked away a day’s work today I wouldn’t be surprised if they refused to let me come in here again. They’ll be pretty stuffy about it. I mean, considering that you don’t seem very cooperative, they’ll regard it as wasted time for me to be paying calls on you when I could be manning the equipment in Zone E or F.” Rawlins finished his drink and got to his feet, grunting a little. He looked down at his bare legs. The diagnostat had covered the wounds with a nutrient spray, flesh-colored; it was almost impossible to tell that his skin had been broken anywhere. Stiffly, he pulled his tattered leggings on. “I won’t bother with the boots,” he said. “They’re in bad shape, and it won’t be pleasant trying to get them on. I suppose I can get back to camp barefoot.”
“The pavement is very smooth,” Muller said.
“You’ll give me some of that liqueur for my friend?”
Silently Muller extended the flask, half full.
Rawlins clipped it to his belt. “It was an interesting day. I hope I can come again.”
4
Boardman said, as Rawlins limped back toward Zone E, “How are your legs?”