And that about cinched it, Dowland thought. He said, "You two were
alone here?"
"No. I'm sure this all sounds very crazy, but--" She nodded at one
of the buildings down the slope from them, a long wooden structure
identified as a feed barn in Dowland's pictures of the ranch. "My other
uncle, Paul Trelawney--he's locked up in there."
"Locked up?" Dowland repeated.
"Yes. There's a key to the door somewhere, but I can't find it."
"Would Miguel know where it is?"
"I think so."
"Then we'll try to get him conscious again at least long enough to tell
us. You'd better get back to the house, Miss Trelawney. I'll dig out
the kit. Be up there in a minute."
He watched the tall supple figure start back across the slope, shook
his head a little, and turned to the wrecked car. She was either
somewhat stupid, or being cagey with a non-Terran. The last seemed a
little more likely. Too bad if she turned out to be involved with
something like the YM business, but that was out of his hands. He'd
have to report immediately, and the Overgovernment specialists would be
here in an hour. It wasn't his job.
He climbed cautiously back into the car. Out of sight of the house, he
pressed a key on the wrist communicator, said, "Chris? This is Dowland.
Emergency," and waited for the hum of response from the instrument.
There was no hum.
Half a minute later, he had the communicator off his wrist and opened.
He couldn't remember having struck his wrist hard enough against
anything to have damaged it, but the delicate mechanisms inside were a
crystal shambles. There was a portable communicator packed in with his
camping equipment. But it operated on grid-power.
It looked like it was going to remain his job for a while, after all.
* * * * *
Miguel Trelawney, in Dowland's unvoiced opinion, was a man who was
dying. He was big-boned and heavily muscled, but on the low couch in
the living room he looked shrunken. Lead-colored skin and thready
pulse. Internal bleeding at a guess--an informed layman's guess.
Radiation burns.
Dowland looked over at the girl. She was disturbed and tense, but
nowhere near hysteria. "We might bring him around," he said bluntly.
"But it will take some hours at least. He's in bad shape."
Her hands, clasped together in her lap, went white around the knuckles.
"Will he ... can you save...."
Dowland shook his head. "I don't know if we can save him here. If we
got him to one of your hospitals tonight, he should have a very good
chance. But we can't do that--unless the grid-power cuts in again."