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“I’d better find my own–ward.” Mryna didn’t know the word, but she supposed it meant some sort of sleeping chamber.

The old man said chattily, “I hadn’t heard they were bringing in any new patients today.”

She was in the corridor by that time. He reached for her hand. “I’ll see you in the sunroom?” It was a timid, hopeful question. “And you’ll tell me all the news–everything they’re doing back on Earth. I haven’t been home for almost a year.”

She fled down the hall. When she heard voices ahead of her, she pulled back a door and slid into another room–a storeroom piled with cases of medicines. Behind the cartons she thought she would be safe.

This wasn’t what she had expected. Mryna thought there might be one man living in a kind of prefab somehow suspended above the rain mist. But there were obviously others up here; she didn’t know how many. And the old man frightened her–more than the dazzling sight of the heavens visible through the mica wall. Mryna had never seen physical age before. No one on Rythar was older than she was herself–a sturdy, healthy, lusty twenty. The old man’s infirmity disgusted her; for the first time in her life she was conscious of the slow decay of death.

The door of the supply room slid open. Mryna crouched low behind the cartons, but she was able to see the man and the woman who had entered the room. A woman–here? Mryna hadn’t considered that possibility. Perhaps the Earth-god already had a mate.

The newcomers were dressed in crisp, white uniforms; the woman wore a starched, white hat. They carried a tray of small, glass cylinders from which metal needles projected. While the woman held the tray, the man drove the needles through the caps of small bottles and filled the cylinders with a bright-colored liquid.

“When are you leaving, Dick?” the woman asked.

“In about forty minutes. They’re sending an auto-pickup.”

“Oh, no!”

“Now don’t start worrying. They have got the bugs out of it by this time. The auto-pickups are entirely trustworthy.”

“Sure, that’s what the army says.”

“In theory they should be even more reliable than–“

“I wish you’d wait for the hospital shuttle.”

“And miss the chance to address Congress this year? We’ve worked too long for this; I don’t want to muff it now. We’ve all the statistical proof we need, even to convince those pinchpenny halfwits. During the past eight years we’ve handled more than a thousand cases up here. On Earth they were pronounced incurable; we’ve sent better than eighty per cent back in good health after an average stay of fourteen months.”

“No medical man has ever questioned the efficiency of cosmic radiation and a reduced atmospheric gravity, Dick.”

“It’s just our so-called statesmen, always yapping about the budget. But this time we have the cost problem licked, too. For a year and a half the ore they send up from Rythar has paid for our entire operation.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“We’ve kept it under wraps, so the politicians wouldn’t cut our appropriations.”

Their glass tubes were full, and they turned toward the door. “It isn’t right,” the woman persisted, “for them not to send a piloted shuttle after you, Dick. It isn’t dignified. You’re our assistant medical director and–“

Her words were cut off as the door slid shut behind them. Mryna tried to fit this new information into what she already knew–or thought she knew–about the Earth-god. It didn’t add up to a pretty picture. She had once asked for a definition of illness, and it was apparent to her that this place which they called the Guardian Wheel was an expensive hospital for Earthmen. It was paid for by the sacrificial ores mined on Rythar. In a sense, Rythar was being enslaved and exploited by Earth. True, it was not difficult to dig out the ore, but Mryna resented the fact that the kids on Rythar had not been told the truth. She had long ago lost her awe of the man called god; now she lost her respect as well.