* * * * *
He noticed it. "Well," he said, "let's have a look at you." He gestured
at the Halsite. The humanoid produced a long knife, and slit through
my tight underdrawers, exposing my leg from ankle to thigh. The shame
of it was almost more than I could bear. Wolverton looked, whistled
through his teeth, and turned to the Halsite.
"Fetch doctor," he said.
The humanoid grinned, flapped his ears in acknowledgment, and
disappeared into the dark interior of the pile with a catlike bound.
And presently he came back with the doctor. She was an apostate,
the barred, tattooed circle of the Faith still visible on her right
wrist--a natural blonde--big-boned and graceful--carrying a small
medikit. She set it down, opened it, took out a fluoroprobe and
examined my leg, ignoring my ritual gesture of abomination.
Her diagnosis was swift and impersonal. "Transverse fracture of the
tibia and fibula," she said. "No complications. Probably it will be
difficult to set since the leg muscles are so well developed, but it
should heal within two weeks under stimuray."
I was embarrassed. To be examined by a female, and an apostate at
that, was bad enough, but to hear the diagnosis spoken so plainly was
unbearable.