I said, "Phil, I want permission to enter quarantine with Joe, here. Let
me have the instruments, and I'll probe for the bullet and take care of
him."
Benson shook his head. "We can't take that chance. We couldn't spare you
if you caught something."
"Who could you spare better?" I demanded. "See here, we've got to find
out sooner or later whether these little fellows carry anything
contagious. If they do, well, then we have a decision to face, but we
can't decide anything until we know."
Sue was at my side now. She said. "You have a dozen people who can punch
a micro-writer. Sam and I aren't indispensable. Besides, it was he who
crippled the poor little fellow."
Without waiting for an answer she called out, "Larson, where are you?"
The lucky carpenter tried to draw back in the shadows, knowing full well
what she had in mind.
Benson stared at me for a minute. He said gruffly, "Very well, if you
can talk Larson out of his cottage, go ahead, play hero!"
I didn't feel very heroic right then. Two hours later, when we had the
bullet out of Joe and had him bedded down comfortably for the night, Sue
cosied up to me in our double sleeping silks and murmured, "What a guy
has to go through out here to get a little privacy!"
Poor Larson!
* * * * *
Bailey and Sorenson set up their lab outside our cabin door. Joe's wound
was seriously infected, and none of our cautiously applied remedies
would control the raging fever with which he awoke the first morning. He
lay, apathetic, eyes half closed, murmuring, "Tala! Tala!"
The doctors seized the opportunity to launch a study of Sirian microbes,
diseases and earth molds. Sue and I took cultures from Joe's wound, and
the medics experimented with the effects of local mold products similar
to the penicillin series. By force-feeding we managed to keep Joe alive
until Bailey, one morning, held up a hypo full of clear liquid and told
us how to administer it.
Joe responded at once. The following day he began sitting up and
vociferously demanding, "Tala, Tala!"
"Must be his wife or girl-friend," Sue deduced. She was wrong. Joe began
making motions of a person lifting a vessel and drinking. When we
offered him water he refused, repeating, "Tala!" and making more
drinking motions. He tried to rise, but the pain in his swollen thigh
stopped him. He sank back licking his lips like a man dying of thirst,
and in spite of his general improvement, he stayed in a sullen, subdued
attitude.
As his wound closed and the swelling reduced, Joe's temperature, which
had reached a fabulous 142 degrees F., stabilized at 137 F., thereby
confirming Benson's prediction that the natives would display a much
higher metabolism. Sue, who had spent hours stroking the fevered brow,
had grown used to Joe's hot-bloodedness, and she teased me about my
relative "frigidity".
Until Joe got his "tala" I made disappointing progress at teaching him
our language. He picked up our words for those few items that pertained
to his comfort, such as food, drink, bedpan and pillow--he revelled in
the luxury of our down-filled pillows. But at first he evinced little
interest in communication.
Then one morning we arose to find him standing and clinging weakly to
the door jamb, searching the perimeter of the clearing with frantic
eyes.
We scolded him, but he ignored us. He spotted a fellow native examining
one of the unfinished huts, which were going up at the rate of one a
day. He called out in a loud, clear voice, and the little golden
creature came running over to investigate.
It was a lovely little female, and I told Sue, "We have a reunion on our
hands. Must be his mate."
But Joe was quite indifferent to her charms. She seemed tolerably happy
to see him, touched his bandages with long, gentle fingers, then hurried
off to the forest as if in response to his commands. Joe made no effort
to follow. He seemed still to realize that he was in good hands and was
profiting by the care he was receiving.
However, he chafed for the ten minutes or so before her return. We
waited with high curiosity. I bet Sue that we were about to learn what
"tala" was. When the female approached again we were mystified. "Why
it's just a mango," Sue said. Indeed, the yellow-skinned, kidney-shaped
fruit which the little native bore carefully in both hands appeared to
be one of the over-sized specimens we had named after its smaller Earth
counterpart.
Joe reached greedily for the fruit, poked a hole in the rind with a
pointed forefinger and drank deeply. Watching from the door of our
bedroom, we could smell a delightful, tangy scent that was only vaguely
typical of the Sirian mangoes we had eaten.
To our surprise, as Joe drank, the skin collapsed like a plastic bag.
"It must be a different species, or else it's much riper than any we've
gathered," Sue said.
When Joe paused to breathe, the female took the fruit from him and
sucked at it enthusiastically. They sank down on Joe's bed and took
turns drinking the juice until the quart-sized skin was crumpled and
empty.
I fear I interrupted an incipient romance in order to retrieve the
discarded skin. The female wrinkled her nose and made for the door. I
watched her roll unsteadily across the clearing with eccentric little
lurches. The bland smile on Joe's handsome face deepened my suspicion. I
pointed to the skin and asked, "Tala?"