"I did nothing wrong."
"Oh, sure. You only failed to keep a lookout, so the Aurora was crippled. And then when you had the chance of an honorable escape with Captain Dufferin and the rest of the officers, you refused to go."
"That's not true. I was injured. I didn't even know that Captain Dufferin had left until days afterwards."
"That's not what I heard—and it's not what the fleet believes. I've put up with a lot of criticism the last few weeks, because of your slovenly behavior and cowardice. You are a blot on the family honor and a disgrace to the navy. You deserve a court-martial."
Myron had been pale, but now his cheeks were turning rosy. Jeff had seen the signs before—his cousin was becoming angry. When Myron was angry, he was also violent.
"Look, Myron, I'm sorry if I've caused you trouble. But if you'll just listen and let me explain exactly what happened when the Aurora met the sounder, you'll understand I'm not to blame.
You don't have to take my word for this. Hooglich and Russo will back me up."
"Sure. The word of two jinners—and two traitors. I'm supposed to believe them?"
"Not just them. People here will confirm it. Lilah can confirm it." Jeff looked again around the room. There was nowhere she could be hiding. "I thought she was with you. Where is she?"
"Ah, yes, Lilah." Myron was studying Jeff's face as he spoke. He turned, picked up his chair, and casually sat down on it. "You're quite right, little Lilah was here."
"But she's not here now."
"No. When we were done, I sent her away." Myron crossed his arms. "You see, cousin, your Lilah thinks she's quite the sexpot. Maybe she is—for a hick settlement out at the edge of civilization. For all I know, you were impressed with her performance, too. I can tell you, though, she wasn't a bit impressed with you. After we'd danced a little, she got excited and we came here. It was her idea. She'd been rubbing herself up against me all the time we were dancing."
"You're lying!"
"Be careful, Cousin. No one calls me a liar and gets away with it. I'll make an allowance, just this once. Anyway, it was hardly worth coming here with her. She ran through her full repertoire in about fifteen minutes. She showed me everything she had, and a pathetic performance it was. Why, even when I told her that she'd had all she was getting, she was begging me to let her stay and give her another chance to—"
Jeff didn't remember jumping. The first thing he knew was that Myron's chair had gone over backward, and his cousin was underneath him on the floor. He had his hands around Myron's throat.
Before he could exert real force, his cousin brought his folded arms wide apart and broke Jeff's grip. They both rolled over and up to face each other.
"You scrawny, knock-kneed wimp." Myron's whole face was blood red. His hands were at his neck, rubbing where Jeff's fingers had dug in. "That does it. What did you think you were doing, protecting the sacred honor of your little tart? I'm going to smash you to pieces. Don't forget, you started it—and I doubt if a snot brain like you will have the sense to deny that if somebody asks."
He was advancing, careful to keep himself between Jeff and the door. Jeff retreated. He knew his cousin. When Myron was in this mood, the best you could hope for was someone coming along before you were hurt too badly.
Myron jumped forward. Jeff, surprising himself with his speed, moved to one side and straight-armed his cousin in the chest. Myron grunted, more with surprise than pain, and fell back a pace.
"Rather box than wrestle, eh? Well, I can live with that. You never landed a punch on me in ten years of trying—and you'll bleed here just as well as you did on Earth. Cover your nose, Jeff!"
As Myron shouted the warning he threw a thundering right-hand punch—at Jeff's middle. If it had connected, Jeff would have been on the floor, unable to breathe. But the punch seemed to take a strangely long time to arrive. Jeff could put his hand out, intercept the fist with his open palm, and bat it away. Myron, following through, hit empty air and almost overbalanced.
His head was a perfect target. Jeff struck out at the exposed right temple—and pulled his punch at the last moment. He hit the side of the head, but too lightly to do any damage.
Myron grunted and stepped back. "Been taking lessons, have you? It won't do you any good. I'm going to see the color of your blood—and I bet it's yellow."
He came in again, more carefully this time, and aimed punch after punch at Jeff's head and body. Not one of them hit. Jeff seemed to have all the time in the world. He could slip under the blows, or take them harmlessly on his open hands and forearms, or even dance away from them completely.
After forty or fifty vain tries, Myron was panting and wheezing. He stopped, put his left hand to his chest, and shook his head.
"I don't know what's happening, but for some reason I can't hit you. And you haven't managed to land a good one on me. How about we call it evens and leave it at that? Say it's a draw, then we can go and get something to eat."
He held his open right hand toward Jeff, ready to shake.
Jeff held out his own hand. "I'll be glad to. I didn't want to fight you in the first—"
He didn't finish. While he was off guard, Myron swung his left fist and punched him hard on the cheekbone, just under his right eye.
It wasn't a knockout, but it was close. Jeff didn't have any feeling of falling, but the next thing he knew he was on his back on the floor, staring up at Myron's gloating face.
"Try that for evens, snot brain. That's fighting, you see, Space Navy style. Winning isn't the main thing, it's the only thing. And if you think you hurt now, wait a few days. The bunch of coots who run this place are too stupid to give in and hand over the Anadem field and whatever else we want. So we're going to squeeze out every last thing that's worth having, and then you're going to eat fire. The main fleet will arrive, and after we've sucked you dry we'll melt the lot of you to slag. Don't think I'll be sorry to see it happen, either. Here's a little something else to remember me by."
Jeff saw it coming, but he was too winded to save himself. Myron's boot thumped into his left side at the bottom of the rib cage. Every organ inside him burst or ripped out of position. He could not bite back his cry of pain.
Myron bent low, so his face was only a couple of inches from Jeff's. "Hurts, does it? Good. Get your fancy bitch to kiss it better. And here's something else for you to think about while she's at it: I enjoyed doing this a lot more than I enjoyed doing her."
He straightened. Jeff heard the clump of boots, then the sound of the door closing. His attempt to sit up produced an intolerable stab of pain in his side. He lay with his eyes closed, praying for it to become less.
It had to become less. There was something that he must do, soon, no matter how much he hurt.
Chapter Eighteen
THE door opened again and Jeff shuddered. If Myron was coming back to give him another kick in the ribs, that would be the end.
He heard a gasp, then the rustle of fabric. He looked up. Lilah was bending over him, her eyes wide.
"What happened to your face? And here."
"Don't touch that!"
She had been reaching out toward his injured side. She pulled her hand away.
"What happened to you?"
"It doesn't matter. Brace yourself and hold out your hand." Jeff gritted his teeth. He reached out his right arm, took Lilah's hand in his, and slowly raised himself until he was sitting upright. The effort made his head swim.
"I have to stand up and walk. You stand first and give me something to hold on to. I've got to get to your mother and talk to her. It's really urgent."
Slowly, favoring his left side and putting no weight on his left leg, Jeff pulled himself all the way to his feet. In a stronger field it would have been quite impossible. As it was, when he was erect he stood swaying for a few moments before he dared to think of moving again. With Lilah's help he edged his way to the wall and leaned against it. After a few more moments he waved her away and stood without assist
ance.
"We have to get you to a medical facility," Lilah said. "Lean on the wall and wait there for a moment." She moved behind Jeff and went into the bathroom. The twenty or thirty seconds that she was gone felt like an hour. When she came out she was holding her white scarf. She showed it to him as she threw it around her shoulders. "I was dreading the idea of coming back for this. Lucky I did, though. Can you walk? I know where the nearest med unit is."
Jeff had taken a small, tentative step forward. It hurt less than he had feared, but more than enough to keep his attention. "I can walk if we go slowly. But not to the med unit. I have to talk to your mother. I have to."
"Treatment first, then you talk to anyone you like."
"No." Jeff halted, resisting her attempt to move him along. "We see your mother before we worry about me. This is really important, Lilah. You don't know Myron the way I do. When he's mad, it's like he's crazy. He doesn't realize what he's saying. He speaks without thinking, and sometimes he says too much."
"What did he say? Surely it wasn't all that important." But Lilah was not really arguing. She had given him her arm to lean on, and he limped along at her side. He hardly knew where he was going because his right eye had swollen until it was closed, but the path they were taking didn't feel right.
"Is this the way to your mother?"
"Sort of. I assume you'd prefer that not too many people see you, the way you are. So we're going to stay in the cylinder end. And in a little while we'll be at a place where we can meet Mother."
"Where is that?" Jeff had his suspicions.
"At the medical center. Don't give me an argument, Jeff. This is the best way to do it. I called Muv when I picked up my scarf and said we'd be going to the med center. She'll meet us there."
Jeff was beyond arguing. The real question was, How much longer could he walk before his insides fell out? Every step made him wince. "Do you know what Simon Macafee said? He said your mother always gets her way. You're just as bad." He stopped his staggering walk. "What's this?"
A machine like the cutout of a giant spider was scuttling toward them. It was flat, six or seven feet long, and no more than six inches high.
"A Logan. Mother's idea, when I told her you were in pain. You can relax. No, don't fight it!"
The machine was closing in on Jeff. He was afraid that it was going to touch his side, and he took a step back. The machine beeped, chirped, and halted. It extended a long, orange tentacle and touched his right wrist. There was a soft hiss. A feeling of coldness ran up his arm and his body went rigid. He knew that he was going to fall.
A dozen thin arms reached out from the Logan, lifted him, and placed him gently on top of the flat plane of its body. He could move his head, but he had neither feeling nor control below the neck.
"Lilah, don't let it put me to sleep!"
"All right. Do you have any problem with that?"
The question made no sense to Jeff, until he heard the Logan reply, in a clear and precise voice, "Not initially. We may want to change our mind about that after full diagnosis. My sensors are performing an evaluation now. So far we have merely used a painkiller and movement inhibitor to prevent farther trauma."
They had moved while the Logan was talking, much faster than Jeff could have walked. He heard a new sound from in front, a high-pitched whirring. Craning his neck up as far as it would go, he saw—blearily, with his left eye only—a door sliding open. In the room beyond, Connie Cheever and Simon Macafee were waiting.
"Lilah," Connie said, "this had better be serious. If you dragged me here for something minor, you're hash." She turned to the Logan. "Preliminary evaluation?"
"Layman terms?"
"Certainly."
"Evaluation is close to complete." The Logan extruded six pencil-thin legs that brought Jeff to the height of a normal bed. "There is significant tissue damage between the eleventh and twelfth ribs on the left side. The eleventh rib has a green-stick fracture. The pleurae are undamaged. In the head there is severe bruising below the right eye, but the cheekbone and orbit are intact."
"Prognosis?"
"Minimal nanny service will produce total functional restoration within forty-eight hours. Suitable nannies have been defined and will be brought here in the next few minutes."
"Hmm." Connie eyed her daughter. "Completely better in a couple of days. Sounds to me as if maybe someone overreacted when they told me I had to get here at once."
"I don't think so. Jeff sounded just like Dad, before the loss of Pezam Station."
It meant nothing to Jeff, but it must have to Connie. "My God," she said, and that was all.
Jeff took his chance. "Lilah wasn't the one who made you come and talk to me. I was. I insisted."
"Why? Did you think you were dying?"
"I felt as though I was, but that's not why. My cousin, Myron. Did you meet him?"
"Briefly."
"He and I had a fight. He did this to me, but that's not the point. When he loses his self-control, he'll blab out all sorts of vicious things. At the end, just before he kicked my ribs in, he said something awful. First the Space Navy and Sol-side will take everything they want from Confluence Center, the Anadem field and anything else. Then they will destroy you. You're going to eat fire, he said. The fleet will reduce Confluence Center to rubble—to slag. You might think he was just talking wild, but I know Myron. When he's really angry he can't think well enough to make up anything. He was telling what he had heard. I think that Confluence Center is in terrible danger."
Connie Cheever took Jeff's words calmly. She glanced across at Simon Macafee, who had been standing silently running his fingers through his long hair.
"So. It looks like we were close to the mark." She turned to Jeff. "What you told us is enormously important, but it's no huge surprise. We were thinking we might need to plan for the worst, now we have no choice. Simon? Can you?"
"How long do I have?"
"Depends how well I can stall the Sol navy people. Maybe a week. Maybe a lot less."
"Touch and go. I'll need help."
"Anything I can spare."
"As many Logans as I need, and twenty of the best jinners."
"That's too many. We'll be stretched over thin. A week like that, we'll start to see systems failure all over the place. Oh, well, in seven days there may be no systems to worry about. I'll get what you need. Don't ask how." Connie turned to Jeff. "Where do you stand on all this? It's survival for us, but you're a Space navy officer, and a Kopal. You could go back home on the Dreadnought, forget the Cloud, and be in the clear."
"I don't think I'd make a good navy officer. Killing people, or letting people be killed because I do nothing, is too hard. That's what Myron seems to think the navy is all about, and he's probably right. If I do get back, I'll resign."
Connie and Lilah remained silent. It was, to Jeff's surprise, Simon Macafee who said, "Ah, but if all the people of conscience leave the navy, what remains? I am sure you can work out the answer to that question."
"I can't stand the navy."
"It takes more courage to stay and endure an awful situation than to run away from it. More courage than I had, I'm afraid."
"All right," Connie said. "The two of you can enjoy the Socratic dialogue some other time. Right now, Simon, we have work to do. Lilah, the nannies will be injected in the next few minutes. Will you stay here and make sure Jeff knows what's happening?"
The hesitation was almost too small to notice, a data burst from mother to daughter and back that Jeff could sense but not read.
"Sure." Lilah pulled a chair over to where Jeff lay. "Will you have food brought in? There's no chef in here."
"What about me?" Jeff added. In spite of his numbed condition, the idea of food was making his mouth water.
"How do you propose to eat it?" Simon asked.
"Lilah will feed him." Another tiny data burst passed between mother and daughter. "Won't you, dear?"
"Sure."
"Can I at least be
sitting upright?" Jeff was tired of his worm's-eye view of events.
"Why didn't you ask?" the Logan said from beneath him.
The flat surface levered up at one end, until Jeff was in a sitting position. Amazingly, his damaged ribs did not produce even a twinge. How useful the nannies would be on Earth—if only they could be imported. But before that could happen, the technology would have to be bought—or stolen?—from the Cloud. Whose side was he really on?
Connie and Simon Macafee were leaving. A smaller Logan came buzzing in with a thin bottle the size of Jeff's forefinger. "Excuse me," it said, and inserted the nozzle into his mouth. He heard a fizzing sound, but felt and tasted nothing.
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