Don hesitated before answering, “I don’t wish to be rude—but you ought to give some proof of that.”
Sir Isaac produced with his voder a sound exactly like a man clearing his throat. “Ahem!” They both turned their heads toward him. “Perhaps,” he went on, “I should enter the discussion. I have known Donald, if I may say so, more recently, my dear Phipps.”
“Well—go ahead.”
Sir Isaac turned most of his eyes on Don. “My dear Donald, do you trust me?”
“Uh, I think so, Sir Isaac—but it seems to me that I am obligated to insist on proof. It isn’t my ring.”
“Yes, you have reason. Then let us consider what would be proof. If I say… ”
Don interrupted, feeling that the whole matter was out of hand. “I’m sorry I let this grow into an argument. You see, it does not matter.”
“Eh?”
“Well, you see, I don’t have the ring any longer. It’s gone.”
There was a dead silence for a long minute. Then Phipps said, “I think Malath has fainted.”
There was scurrying excitement while the Martian’s cart was removed to his chambers, tension until it was reported that he was floating in his very special bed and resting comfortably. The conference resumed with three members. Phipps glowered at Don. “It’s your fault, you know. What you said took the heart out of him.”
“Me? I don’t understand.”
“He was a courier, too—he was stranded here the same way you were. He has the other half of the message—of the message you lost. And you removed the last possible chance he has of getting home before high gravity kills him. He’s a sick man—and you jerked the rug out from under him.”
Donald said, “But—”
Sir Isaac interrupted. “Donald is not at fault. The young should be blamed only with just cause and after deliberation, lest the family sorrow.”
Phipps glanced at the dragon, then back at Don. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and bad tempered. What’s done is done. The important point is: what happened to the ring? Is there any possibility of locating it?”
Don looked unhappy. “I’m afraid not.” He explained rapidly about the attempt to get the ring from him and how he had had no proper place to protect it. “I didn’t know that it was really important but I was determined to carry out Dr. Jefferson’s wishes—maybe I’m sort of stubborn at times. So I did the best I could think of to do; I turned it over to a friend for safekeeping. I figured that was best because no one would think of looking for it in the hands of a person who wouldn’t be expected to have it.”
“Sound enough,” agreed Phipps, “but to whom did you give it?”
“A young lady.” Don’s features contorted. “I think she was killed when the Greenies attacked.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m fairly certain. I’ve been doing work that gives me opportunities to ask and nobody has laid eyes on her since the attack. I’m sure she’s dead.”
“You could be wrong. What was her name?”
“Isobel Costello. Her father managed the I.T.&T. branch.”
Phipps looked utterly astounded, then lay back in his chair and roared. Presently he wiped his eyes and said, “Did you hear that, Sir Isaac? Did you hear that? Talk about the Blue Bird in your own back yard! Talk about Grandma’s spectacles!”
Don looked from one to the other. ‘What do you mean?” he asked in offended tones.
“What do I mean? Why, son, Jim Costello and his daughter have been right here since two days after the attack.” He jumped out of his chair. “Don’t move! Stay where you are—I’ll be right back.”
And he was back quickly. “I always have trouble with those funny house phones of yours, Sir Ike,” he complained. “But they’re coming.” He sat down and heaved a sigh. “Some days I’m tempted to turn myself in as an idiot.”
Phipps shut up, save for a suppressed chuckle or two. Sir Isaac seemed to be contemplating his non-existent navel. Don was preoccupied with turbulent thoughts, relief too great to be pleasure. Isobel alive!
Presently, calm somewhat restored, he spoke up. “Look, isn’t it about time somebody told me what this is all about?”