The man blew smoke at the exposed opening. It eddied forward, then some of it curled inside; the dragon was still alive.
Still very much alive. Every eyestalk sprang to rigid attention; he lifted his chin, carrying Don with it, then he sneezed. The blast struck Don where he floated loosely and turned him over and over. He threshed in the air for a moment before catching a handhold on the hatch ladder.
The ship’s officer was rubbing one wrist. “The beggar clipped me,” he complained. “I won’t try that again soon. Well, I guess he’ll be all right.”
Sir Isaac whistled mournfully; Don answered him. The spaceman looked at him. “You savvy that stuff?”
“Some.”
“Well, tell him to use his squawk box. I don’t!”
Don said, “Sir Isaac—use your voder.” The Venerian tried to comply. His tentacles hunted around, found the keys of the artificial voice box, and touched them. No sounds came out. The dragon turned an eye at Don and whistled a series of phrases.
“He regrets to say that its spirit has departed,” Don interpreted.
The ship’s officer sighed. “I wonder why I ever left the grocery business? Well, if we can get it unlatched from him, I’ll see if ‘Sparks’ can fix it.”
“Let me,” said Don and squirmed into the space between the dragon’s head and the deck plates. The voder case, he found, was secured to four rings riveted to the Venerian’s skin plates. He could not seem to find the combination; the dragon’s tendrils fluttered over his hands, moved them gently out of the way, unfastened the box, and handed it to him. He wiggled out and gave it to the man. “Looks like he kind of slept on it,” he commented.
“A mess,” the other agreed. “Well, tell him I’ll have them fix it if possible and that I’m glad he wasn’t hurt.”
“Tell him yourself; he understands English.”
“Eh? Oh, of course, of course.” He faced the Venerian who immediately set up a long shrilling. “What’s he say?”
Don listened. “He says he appreciates your good wishes but that he is sorry to have to disagree; he is unwell. He says that he urgently requires” Don stopped and looked puzzled, then whistled the Venerian equivalent of “Say that again, please?”
Sir Isaac answered him; Don went on, “He says he’s just got to have some sugar syrup.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what he says.”
“I’ll be—How much?”
There was another exchange of whistles; Don answered, “—Uh, he says he needs at least a quarter of a—there isn’t any word for it; it’s an amount about equal to half a barrel, I’d say.”
“You mean he wants half a barrel of waffle juice?”
“No, no, a quarter of that—an eighth of a barrel. What would that come to in gallons?”
“I wouldn’t attempt it without a slipstick; I’m confused. I don’t even know that we have any on board.” Sir Isaac set up more frantic whistling. “But if we don’t, I’ll have the cook whip up some. Tell him to hold everything and take it easy.” He scowled at the dragon, then left quite suddenly.
Don attached himself to one of the steel straps and asked, “How are you feeling now?”
The dragon replied apologetically to the effect that he needed to return to the egg for the moment. Don shut up and waited.
The captain himself showed up to attend the sick passenger. The ship, being in free trajectory for the satellite space station, would not require his presence in the control room until well past noon, New Chicago time; he was free to move around the ship. He arrived in company with the ship’s doctor and followed by a man herding a metal tank.
The two conferred over the dragon, at first ignoring Don’s presence. However neither of them knew the piping speech of the dragon tribe; they were forced to turn to Don. Through him Sir Isaac again insisted that he required sugar solution, as a stimulant. The captain looked worried. “I’ve read somewhere that sugar gets them drunk the same as alcohol does us.”
Don again translated for the Venerian; what he had asked for was simply a medicinal dose.