"I'll be up in your quarters." Shandor slammed down the receiver and
started for the elevator to the Resident Physicians' wing.
He let himself in by a key, and settled down in the darkened room to
wait an eternity before a tall, gaunt man walked in, snapped on a light,
and loosened the white jacket at his neck. He was a young man, no more
than thirty, with a tired, sober face and jet black hair falling over
his forehead. His eyes lighted as he saw Shandor, and he grinned. "You
look like you've been through the mill. What happened?"
Shandor stripped off his clothes, exposing the angry red of the seared
skin. The tall man whistled softly, the smile fading. Carefully he
examined the burned area, his fingers gentle on the tender surface, then
he turned troubled eyes to Shandor. "You've been messing around with
dirty guys, Tom. Nobody but a real dog would turn a scalder on a man."
He went to a cupboard, returned with a jar of salve and bandages.
"Is it serious?" Shandor's face was deathly white. "I've been fighting
shock with thiamin for the last hour, but I don't think I can hold out
much longer."
Prex shrugged. "You didn't get enough to do any permanent damage, if
that's what you mean. Just fried the pain-receptors in your skin to a
crisp, is all. A little dose is so painful you can't do anything but
holler for a while, but it won't hurt you permanently unless you get it
all over you. Enough can kill you." He dressed the burned areas
carefully, then bared Shandor's arm and used a pressure syringe for a
moment. "Who's using one of those things?"
Shandor was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Look, Prex. I need some
help, badly." His eyes looked up in dull anger. "I'm going to see a man
tonight, and I want him to talk, hard and fast. I don't care right now
if he nearly dies from pain, but I want him to talk. I need somebody
along who knows how to make things painful."