He had no inkling of his own future status--whether the return
to Terra would find him permanently earthed. And he would ask no
questions.
They had been four days of ship's time in Hyper when Dane walked into the
mess cabin, tired after his work with old records, to discover no Mura
busy in the galley beyond, no brew steaming on the heat coil. Rip sat at
the table, his long legs stuck out, his usually happy face very sober.
"What's wrong?" Dane reached for a mug, then seeing no pot of drink, put
it back in place.
"Frank's sick--"
"What!" Dane turned. Illness such as they had run into on Sargol had a
logical base. But illness on board ship was something else.
"Tau has him isolated. He has a bad headache and he blacked out when he
tried to sit up. Tau's running tests."
Dane sat down. "Could be something he ate--"
Rip shook his head. "He wasn't at the feast--remember? And he didn't eat
anything from outside, he swore that to Tau. In fact he didn't go dirt
much while we were down--"
That was only too true as Dane could now recall. And the fact that the
steward had not been at the feast, had not sampled native food products,
wiped out the simplest and most comforting reasons for his present
collapse.
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