“Tejef!” Arle cried at the intercom. And when no answer came she went out and tried to find someone, one of the guards, anyone at all. She began to run, hard-breathing, to one and another of the compartments off the infirmary, trying to find at least one of the amaut attendants.
The fourth door yielded an amaut who gibbered at her and thrust an ugly black gun at her. She screamed in fright, and her eyes widened as she saw the dark man who lay inside the room, unconscious or dead, in the embrace of restraints and strange instruments.
She tried to dart under the amaut’s reach. He seized her arm in one strong amautish hand and twisted it cruelly. Of a sudden he let her go.
She kicked him and fled, and met a black-clad man chest-on. She looked up and was only realizing it was Tejef when his hand cracked across her face.
It threw her down, hurt her jaw, and made her deaf for a moment; but dazed and hurt as she was she knew that he had slapped, not hit, and that the tempers which gripped him would pass. She gave a desperate sob of effort, scrambled to her feet, and raced for the infirmary, for Margaret, and safety.
He had followed her, coming around the corner not long after she had shut and locked the door; and to her horror she saw the door open despite the lock, without his touching it. She fled back to Margaret’s bedside and sank down there hard-breathing. She sought to ignore him by way of defense, and did not look at him.
“You’re not hurt?” Tejef demanded of her. Arle shook her head. One did not talk to Tejef when he was angry. Margaret had advised her so. She was sick with fear.
“I say stay with Margaret, m’metane-tak. Am I mistaking meaning—stay?”
“Margaret got worse. And I thought it was you in there. I’m sorry, sir.”
“I?” Tejef seemed greatly surprised, even upset, and fingered gently the hot place his blow had left on her cheek. “You are a child, Arle. A child must obey.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Niseth. I regret the blow.”
She looked up at him, perceiving that he was indeed sorry. And she knew that it embarrassed him terribly to admit that he was wrong. That was to be a man—not being wrong. Her father had been like that.
“Tejef,” said Margaret. Her eyes had opened. “Tejef, where are we?”
“Still on Priamos.” As if it were a very difficult thing he offered his hand to her reaching fingers.
“I thought I felt us move.”
“Yes.”
The confusion seemed to overwhelm her. She moaned a tiny sound and clenched her fingers the more tightly upon his; but he disengaged himself gently and quietly went about preparing Margaret’s medicines himself. The lights dimmed. Things shook in his hands.
“Sir?” Arle exclaimed, half-rising.
The lights came on again and he continued his work. He returned to Margaret’s side, ignoring Arle’s questions of lights and machines, administered another injection and waited for it to take effect.
“Tejef,” Margaret pleaded sleepily.
His lips tightened and he kept his eyes fixed upon the machines for a moment; but then he bent down and let her lips brush his cheek. Gently he returned the gesture, straightened, hissed very softly, and walked out, his long strides echoing down the hall.
When Arle looked at Margaret again, she was quiet, and slept.
“Priamos-time,” said Rakhi, “one hour remains.”
Then let me use it unhindered, Chaikhe retorted, not caring to voice or to screen. Rakhi’s periodic reminders of the time disrupted her concentration and lessened her efficiency. She had her own internal clock; cross-checking with Rakhi’s was a nuisance.
Exhaustion is lowering your efficiency, dimming your perceptions, and rendering you most difficult, Chaikhe. His mind seemed a little strained also. Chimele hovered near him like a foreboding of ruin to come. I know you are tired and short of temper. So am I. It is senseless to work against me.
Go away. Chaikhe flung herself back from the console, abandoning manual and mental controls. It was rashness. Tejef’s attacks were fewer during the last half-hour, but no less fierce. Tejef also knew the time. He was surely saving what he could for some last-moment effort.