"--not dead!" blurted Dusty. "Get water and stuff."
* * * * *
Slowly they stretched Scyth out on his back, and Barbara went for her
first aid kit while Dusty slid off Scyth's jacket and ripped the shirt
free. The wound looked frightful, but some sponging with hot water and
alcohol reduced the horror to a weeping hole that tried to breathe
blood in and out. It was low on one side, somewhere near the floating
ribs on the right.
"Flesh wound?" asked Dusty hopefully.
"I wouldn't know. Maybe." Barbara flipped the pages of a large book
from her library, a book that had not been used much. "It says a
compress."
Dusty made a pad of bandage and cotton and covered the hole. He taped
it down. Scyth groaned again and Barbara cracked open an inhalant vial
and put the stuff under Scyth's nose.
"Wh--wha--di' you hi' me wi'?"
Dusty never knew from where he found the moral strength to be
hard-boiled. But all of a sudden the feeling that this was one hell
of a mess left him; his next feeling was one of confidence and
self-justification. "It's called a belly gun," he said. "But you'll be
all right in a couple of months. Maybe three."
Scyth tried to struggle up but failed. He fell back and lay there
glaring at them. He gasped, "Cou'le munce?"
"Sure. Stop crying. It's just a flesh wound."
"Bu' in cou'le munce--'ll be--bar'rine fiel'--gone--"
"Take it, Scyth. Sure. It's tough," said Dusty in a cold,
matter-of-fact voice. "You've played and lost, but that's all right. Be
a good loser. You've got a lot of company."
"Com'any?"
"Sure. There's millions of guys who've lost their future and their
birthright over the flick of a hemline. We're a primitive sort of
race, old man, but you'll find us both healthy and lusty. Forget
Marandis and your ding-busted beacons. Maybe you can help us build a
spacecraft--after we get through this barytrine business your friends
cooked up for us."
"Bu' can--mus' not--Chat an' Bren--die--"
"Nonsense."
Barbara plucked at Dusty's sleeve. "He's talking about his friends.
Chat and Bren. On Mercury, remember?"
"Oh, don't worry about them."
"But don't you see, Dusty? If we go into the barytrine field, and trap
Scyth and his spacecraft with us, his friends will be marooned on
Mercury."
Dusty nodded quickly. "Sure and that's what I'm counting on. They'll
not start Sol into a variable until Scyth gets back. So--"
"Don't be blind. They won't start the variable star, but no one can
stop the barytrine field. They'll still be marooned."
Dusty grinned. "You don't think a gang this advanced would be so dumb
as to leave a couple of their kind marooned on a place like Mercury, do
you? Well, I'll tell you how I've got it figured, Barb. Exactly eight
seconds after Scyth does not land as per schedule, Chat and Bren will
be calling for help on these phanoband things. That'll take care of
them. But as for this guy, let's cheer up. We've got a sort of hostage.
Scyth will be most happy to make a spacecraft for us as soon as he gets
back on his feet. Chat and Bren will, of course, be taken care of some
thousand years before we--"
Scyth groaned loudly.
"Huh?" demanded Dusty.
"S'no-so. Bren an' Chat--alone. No--no--famban--phan'ban'--phanoban' on
Mer'cry. Die--"
Barbara started to say, "But your company--" but Dusty turned quickly
and slapped a broad hand over her mouth.
"Shut up," he whispered in her ear swiftly. "He's got to think there is
no help. He's forgotten that someone knows they're here. Play it by ear
and follow my lead."
"What can you hope to do?"
"I don't know," said Dusty. "But I'm hoping that I find out." Loud
enough for Scyth to hear, Dusty asked, helplessly, "But what can we do?"
"Car--ou'side. Spacer. Pocket--map."
* * * * *
Dusty made a dive for Scyth's jacket and found a folded road map in
one of the pockets. Like any stranger in a strange land, Scyth had
outlined the route in a heavy blue pencil. His travel was detailed, it
took Dusty no more than a glance to place the location of Scyth's big
spacecraft.
Scyth rested a moment and then went on: "Hurt--can be doc'or on
Maran'is. Hurry--"