"I guess they keep them to fertilize the plants, sir."
"They bother me. I can't tell where they are."
"I'll watch out for them, sir."
He could see the insect plainly now, and thought, I have an excuse to
watch it. The buzz changed pitch as the bee started to settle, then
changed again as it moved on a few feet. Murdoch clamped his teeth in
frustration. He tried to wipe his free hand where trousers should have
been, and discovered that his thigh was sweaty too. He thought, surely
Waverill must feel how sweaty my arm is.
The bee flirted with another flower, then settled on a petal. Tense,
Murdoch subtly moved Waverill toward the spot. He could see every move
of the insect's legs as it crawled into the bell of the flower.
"You can smell the blossoms more now, sir," he said. His throat felt
dry, and he thought his voice sounded odd. "It's warming up and
bringing out the smell, I guess." He halted, and tried not to let his
arm tense or tremble. "This is a light blue blossom. Can you see it?"
"I--I'm not sure. I can see a bright spot a little above my head and
right in front of me."
"That's a reflection off the ice, sir. The flower's down here." Holding
his breath, he took Waverill's hand and moved it toward the flower.
He found himself gritting his teeth and wincing as Waverill's fingers
explored delicately around the flower.
The bee crawled out, apparently not aware of anything unusual, and
moved away a few inches. It settled on a leaf and began working its
legs together.
Murdoch felt like screaming.
Waverill's fingers stopped their exploration, then, as the bee was
silent, began again. Waverill bent over to bring his eyes closer to his
hand.
* * * * *
Shaking with anxiety now, Murdoch executed the small movements of his
right hand that forced the tiny instrument out from between his thumb
and forefinger. He felt a panicky desire to hurry, and forced himself
to move slowly. He transferred the tiny syringe to his left hand, which
was nearer Waverill. Waverill was about to pluck the blossom. Murdoch
moved his right hand forward, trying--in case the aliens could see,
though he had his body in the way--to make the move casual. He flicked
a finger near the bee.
The bee leaped into the air, its buzz high-pitched and loud. Waverill
tensed.
Murdoch cried, "Look out, sir!" and grabbed at Waverill's hand. He
jabbed the miniature syringe into the fleshy part of the hand, at the
outside, just below the wrist.
"Damn you!" Waverill bellowed, slapping at his right hand with his
left. He jerked away from Murdoch.
"Here, sir! Let me help you!"
"Get away from me, you clumsy fool!"
"Please, sir. Let me get the stinger out. You'll squeeze more poison
into your skin."
Waverill faced him, a hand raised as if to strike. Then he lowered it.
"All right, damn you; and be careful about it."
Shakily, Murdoch took Waverill's hand. The syringe, dangling from the
skin, held a trace of red in its minute plastic bulb. Murdoch gasped
for breath and fought to make his fingers behave. He got hold of the
syringe and drew it out. Pretending to drop it, he hid it in the
junction of the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. He kept
his body between them and the building, and tried to make his actions
convincing. "There. It's out, sir."
Waverill was still cursing in a low voice. Presently he stopped, but
his face was still hard with anger. "Take me inside."
"Yes, sir." Murdoch was weak with reaction. He drew a painful breath,
gave the older man his left arm and led him back.
The tiny thing between his fingers felt as large and as conspicuous as
a handgun.