The medic flexed his muscles and said: "I can't take the
responsibility--"
"When are you people going to get it through your stubborn heads that
the responsibility for this whole shebang is mine and mine alone?"
Two more of the crew showed up. Under other circumstances, I might have
enjoyed tangling with them. I know tricks that even the inventors of
karate overlooked.
"All right," I gasped. "But give me the dope. He's not alone, is he? Are
you in contact?"
It developed that Moya had returned to the site of the disaster
immediately upon learning that I was out of danger. He'd taken a
crewman. He was also equipped with my chart of the area complete with
locales of the remains. The last word had been that the two had grounded
and that the weather front was dissipating. He'd been gone about two
hours.
"They both had bug suits," the medic offered.
"Great," I said. "Just splendid. Suppose there's a creature down there
that can go through plastic like--"
For the first time the three lost their smug expressions.
"We destroyed your clothes," the medic said sheepishly. "We figured--"
I railed at them for a couple of minutes, but it was mostly unfair.
Moya's decision could be justified, too.
They rustled up a uniform and helped me to Astrogation. The remaining
crewman was at the comm. The freeze was beginning to wear off, and my
leg burned.
I alternated between berating myself and trying to think up an adequate
explanation for the possible death or injury of two men ostensibly under
my control.
After several hours of sweat-agony, Moya's voice came over the horn. He
sounded tired.
"We've done it. You'll be happy to know that we gave them an official
burial."
I could picture the little Mexican, standing beside the long mound, head
bowed, with the Specter probably staring over his shoulder, going
methodically through the complete Memorial Service, ending with: _And
the whole galaxy is the sepulcher of illustrious men._
"It's not much of a place, but the sun is shining now. Expect us
shortly."
* * * * *
"Are you _sure_ you're all right?"
I was propped on my elbows on the bunk in my cubicle, nursing the jangle
in my leg. Maybe it was that--but I was as confused as a mouse in a
psych maze.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Moya said.
"And you wore the suits all the time?"
"Affirmative. If you'd done the same--"
The medic showed with lab analyses.
"There wasn't much of that stuff in you," he said. "And I can't break it
down. Too complex. You used the cobra venom analogy--Well, this makes
that look as simple as mother's milk."
He held up the stained pieces of uniform. Moya had kept his wits about
him.
"A combination of weather, soil, et cetera," the medic said. "Completely
innocuous."
"About the toxin," I said. "Given time, could you work up an antivenin?"
"Probably. But I'd need plenty. Both time and toxin." He looked at me.
"Oh, I see what you're getting at." He became professionally parochial.
"In other words--" I said.
He snapped his fingers.
"You know how it hit you."
The confusion persisted, so I allowed the medic to use a pressure hypo.
Hours later, I felt better--physically.
On the vid screen, the magnified surface of the insular mass seemed
almost to beckon. _Sireni_, I thought.
Little remained of the weather front. Over the area of the plain and the
rolling hills were meager wisps of clouds. Darkness again was creeping
across the face of E-T.
"That storm didn't amount to much," Moya said.
_Storm_, I thought. _Rain._
"I know what I'd do," Moya continued. "I'd radiate and have done with
it."
The medic dissented on clinical-curiosity grounds.
"I can't reconcile things yet," I said. "But let's assume that it was a
tragedy of errors. Let's say that what hit me, killed them. But what was
it? Where did it come from? And why? No, I'll have to go down again.
It's my burden to find _all_ the answers."