And this boy from the frontier village might be himself
as he was five years earlier. Though he had never known a real home or
family, scrapping into the Pool from one of the children's Depots.
"Good luck!" He meant that and the boy's flush deepened.
"Thank you, sir. Around here--Father's treatment room has this other
door--"
Dane allowed himself to be helped into the treatment room and sat down in
a chair while the boy hurried off to locate the Medic. The Trader's hand
went to the butt of his concealed blaster. It was a job he had to do--one
he had volunteered for--and there was no backing out. But his mouth had a
wry twist as he drew out the blaster and made ready to point it at the
inner door. Or--his mind leaped to another idea--could he get the Medic
safely out of the village? A story about another man badly
injured--perhaps pinned in the wreckage of an escape boat--He could try
it. He thrust the blaster back inside his torn undertunic, hoping the
bulge would pass unnoticed.
"My son says--"
Dane looked up. The man who came through the inner door was in early
middle age, thin, wiry, with a hard, fined-down look about him.
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