The Quillian Sector

"I was once." Her tone held bitterness. "But that was a long time ago. Now I earn my living treating young fools who should have more sense than to get themselves hurt in stupid duels. We have a law against such things and the penalties are harsh. Hold still, now." Again came the liquid fire, the touch of acid burning away the corruption which had festered in the wound. Menser had carried vileness beneath his fingernails; a paste containing virulent bacteria which, untreated, could kill. "There, that should do it. You were lucky."

The woman was wrong. Caution, not luck, had dictated his actions. He had noticed the festering gash and had suspected its cause. The same caution had made him seek unofficial aid; had caused him to leave the camp with pay still uncollected. A precaution against Menser's friends and others who might have agents lying in wait.

Now, turning, he looked at the woman who stood to one side of the couch, a small bowl in one hand, the glass stylo with which she had applied the acid held by her thumb. "Is there anything else?"

"Maintain a watch on your temperature. Should it rise more than five degrees take antibiotics and seek medical advice."

"The wound itself?"

"Has been cleaned and sealed. The compound of my own devising; the residue film will peel automatically as the wound heals." She added, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

He did not mistake her meaning even though she was still attractive, though far from young. Many of those who paid for her help would have wanted more than the service she offered-passion riding on the relief of assistance given. Perhaps she catered to them. People lived as best they could and there was little charity on Ealius, but he sensed she had judged him to hold wider interests,

"I need to get on a ship," said Dumarest. "I'd like to do it without attracting attention. Would you know how it could be done?"

"The gate is guarded," she said immediately. "All leavings are checked against the files deposited by the construction company. They don't want anyone leaving who owes them money. Are you breaking a contract?"

"No."

"Then you could pass through the gate without difficulty."

"And if I were?"

"Breaking a contract?" She frowned. "There are ways if you have money. Men who will smuggle you on a vessel as long as you don't care where you go or how you end. I wouldn't advise using the service they offer."

"Why not?" Dumarest asked, but already knew the answer. Too many worlds close by had mines which needed workers and those who operated them were careless as to how they gained their laborers. A man, buying a secret passage, could wind up contracted to slave in a living hell. "What else is there?"

"If you can afford it, there are men who could arrange to have you signed on as a crew member."

"And would that be safer?" Dumarest eased himself from the couch. The sting had gone from the wound and he moved his arm a few times to test the pull of the plastic film covering it. "I'm avoiding enemies," he explained. "A little trouble I had-no need for detail. You've heard it all before."

As she had learned to recognize lies. As Dumarest dressed, she put away her things, turning to look as he donned the boots and the knife he carried in the right. They were a match for the pants and long-sleeved tunic, which rose high to fit snugly around the throat. Tough material in which was imbedded protective metallic mesh. The gray plastic was easy to clean and simple to refurbish. A convenience for any traveler.

As he reached for money, she said, "You paid me in advance."

"For the medical treatment only."

"The advice came free."

"And your silence?" He dropped coins on the couch as she made no answer, "This is to forget you've ever seen me. And this," he added more, "is for being what you are."

For not asking questions, for taking him in on the basis of nothing more than a whispered introduction from an intermediary, for taking care of the man, in turn. And, perhaps, for looking like someone else he had known years ago now, and a long journey through space. A woman who had tended him when, as a young man, he had suffered his first wound and who had healed the gash as she had tended his desires. Her name? That was forgotten, together with the name of the world on which they had met. But some things about her could not be forgotten; the touch of her hands, the shape of her hair, the clustered wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, her kindness.

"Thank you," the woman said quietly. She made no effort to pick up the money. "There is a tavern on the corner of North and Inner. Some captains and others have a habit of using the back room. Ask for Varn Egulus. But you are welcome to stay, if you wish."

"No. I must be on my way."