But if we were clawed we might take it too.
Remember those marks on the throats and backs of the rest? That might be
the entry point of this poison--if poison it is--"
Dane could see the end of that line of reasoning. Rip and Ali--they
couldn't be spared. The knowledge they had would bring the Queen to
earth. But a Cargo-master was excess baggage when there was no reason for
trade. It was his place to try out the truth of Ali's surmise.
But while he thought another acted. Weeks leaned over and twitched the
lancet out of Ali's fingers. Then, before any of them could move, he
thrust its contaminated point into the back of his hand.
"Don't!"
Both Dane's cry and Rip's hand came too late. It had been done. And Weeks
sat there, looking alone and frightened, studying the drop of blood which
marked the dig of the surgeon's keen knife. But when he spoke his voice
sounded perfectly natural.
"Headache first, isn't it?"
Only Ali was outwardly unaffected by what the little man had just done.
"Just be sure you have a real one," he warned with what Dane privately
considered real callousness.
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