He stopped and for a long, hard moment looked at Blaine.
“What do you know about gobathian?” he asked.
“I’ve heard of it,” said Blaine.
And he’d heard of it, all right, he thought.
“An alien drug,” the doctor said. “Used by an insect race. A warring insect race. And it’s done miracles. It can patch up a smashed and broken body. It can repair bones and organs. It can grow new tissue.”
He glanced down at the swathed deadness, then looked back at Blaine.
“You’ve read the literature?” he asked.
“A popularization, Blaine lied. “In a magazine.”
And he could see again the seething madness of that jungle planet where he had stumbled on this drug the insects used — although in very truth they were not insects nor was it a drug they used.
Although, he told himself, there was no need to quibble. Terminology, always difficult, had become impossible with the going to the stars. You used approximations and let it go at that. You did the best you could.
“We’ll move you to another room,” the doctor told him.
“No need of that,” said Blaine. “I was just about to leave.”
“You can’t,” said the doctor, flatly. “I will not allow it. I won’t have you on my conscience. There’s something wrong with you, something very wrong. There’s no one to look after you — no friends, no people.”
“I’ll get along. I always have before.”
The doctor moved closer.
“I have a feeling,” he said, “that you’re not telling me the truth — not the entire truth.”
Blaine walked away from him. He reached the closet and got his shirt and put it on. He scuffed into his shoes. He picked up his jacket and shut the closet door, then turned around.
“Now,” he said, “if you’ll just move aside, I’ll be going out.”
There was someone coming down the corridor. Perhaps, Blaine thought, someone with the food the doctor promised. And maybe he should wait until the food arrived, for he needed it.
But there was more than one person coming down the corridor — there were at least a pair of footsteps. Perhaps someone who had heard him yelling for the doctor, bearing down upon the room to see if help were needed.
“I wish that you would change your mind,” the doctor said. “Aside from the feeling you need help, there also is the matter of formalities . . .”
Blaine heard no more of what he had to say, for the walkers had reached the door and were standing just outside of it, looking in the room.
Harriet Quimby, cool as ice, was saying: “Shep, how did you wind up here? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
And the telepathic undertone hit him like a whiplash: Give! Quick! Fill me in!
Just claim me, that is all (ferocious woman dragging errant urchin behind her with no ceremony). If you do that, they’ll let me go. Found me lying underneath a willow tree. . . .
(Drunk who had somehow climbed into a garbage can and can’t get out of it, top hat tilted on one ear, nose snapping and flashing like an advertising sign, crossed eyes registering a rather mild surprise.)
No, not that, Blaine pleaded. Just stretched out underneath the tree, dead to all the world. He thinks there’s something wrong with me. . . .
There is. . . .
But not what he —
And Godfrey Stone was saying, smoothly, friendly, with a half-relieved, half-worried smile: “So you’ve been having the old trouble. Too much liquor, I suppose. You know the doctor told you—”
“Ah, hell,” protested Blaine, “just a snort or two. Not enough. . . .”
“Aunt Edna has been wild,” said Harriet. “She imagined all sorts of things. You know what an imaginer she is. She was convinced you were gone for good and all this time.”
Godfrey! Godfrey! Oh, my God, three years. . . .
Take it easy, Shep. No time now. Get you out of here.
Dr. Wetmore said: “You people know this man? A relative of yours?”
“Not relatives,” said Stone. “Just friends. His Aunt Edna—”
“Well, let’s go,” said Blaine.
Stone glanced questioningly at the doctor, and Wetmore nodded.
“Stop at the desk,” he said, “and pick up his release. I’ll phone it down. They’ll want your names.”
“Gladly,” said Stone. “And thank you very much.”
It’squite all right.”
Blaine stopped at the door and turned back to the doctor.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t tell the truth. I am not proud of it.”
“All of us,” the doctor said, “have moments in which we can take no pride. You are not alone.”
“Good-by, Doctor.”
“So long,” said the doctor. “Take care of yourself.”
Then they were going down the corridor, the three of them abreast.
Who was in that other bed? asked Stone.
A man by the name of Riley.
Riley!
A truck driver.
Riley! He was the man we were looking for. We just ran into you.
Stone halted and half turned to go back.
No use, said Blaine. He’s dead.
And his truck?
Smashed. He ran off the road.
“Oh, Godfrey!” Harriet cried.
He shook his head at her. “No use,” he said. “No use.”
Hey, what is going on?
We’ll tell you all of it. First, let’s get out of here.
Stone seized him by the elbow and hustled him along.
Just one thing. How is Lambert Finn mixed up in all of this?
“Lambert Finn,” Stone said vocally, “is the most dangerous man in the world today.”
NINETEEN
“Don’t you think we should drive a little farther?” Harriet asked. “If that doctor should get suspicious . . .”
Stone wheeled the car into the drive.
“Why should he get suspicious?”
“He’ll get to thinking. He’s puzzled by what happened to Shep and he’ll get to wondering. After all, our story had a lot of holes in it.”
“For one thought up on the moment, I thought we did real well.”
“But we’re only ten miles out of town.”
“I’ll want to go back tonight. I have to do some checking on what became of Riley’s truck.”
He braked the car to a halt in front of the unit marked “Office.”
“Run your head into a noose, you mean,” said Harriet. The man who had been sweeping off the steps walked over to the car.
“Welcome, folks,” he said, heartily. “What can the Plainsman do for you?”
“Have you two connecting?”
“It just so happens,” said the man, “we have. Nice weather we been having.”
“Yes, very splendid weather.”
“Might turn cold, though. Any day. It is getting late. I can remember when we had snow—”
“But not this year,” said Stone.
“No, not this year. You were saying you wanted two connecting.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Drive right on, straight ahead. Numbers ten and eleven. I’ll get the keys and be right along.”
Stone lifted the car on gentle jets and slid down the roadway. Other cars were parked cozily against their units. People were unloading trunks. Others were sitting in chairs on the little patios. Down at the far end of the parkway a foursome of old codgers were loudly pitching horseshoes.
The car skidded into the space before No. 10 and settled easily to the ground.