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“It is better,” he said to Dirrul in throaty Vininese. “So beautiful a one should not feel the pain.” Carefully he fastened the needlepoint of a wall tube into Glenna’s vein and another into Hurd’s.

“Synthetic blood feeding,” he said with a smile. “It will keep them alive, perhaps even permitting minor wounds to heal, until I deliver them to the authorities on Vinin. You see, sir, my little ship is well-equipped.” He slammed the round door of the hospital room shut and led Dirrul to the control blister.

“How long will it be, this trip to Vinin?” Dirrul asked, speaking very slowly in classical Vininese. Like everyone in the Movement he had studied the language of Vinin as a sort of courtesy and duty but he had no illusion about his small ability to handle it.

“In terms of your time,” the pilot said, “about thirty days.”

“Only thirty? The Planetary Union hasn’t a ship that could make it under sixty!”

“But this is a Space-dragon.” The words were self-explanatory.

Proudly the pilot showed Dirrul the controls, as functional and as uncomplex as the cool clean lines of the ship herself. The design was so logical, so basically simple, that within a few minutes Dirrul understood enough of the mechanism to have driven the ship himself.

“Your scientists could do as well,” the pilot suggested, “if they wished.”

“Not mine,” Dirrul said.

“Pardon–the scientists of the Planetary Union. On Vinin we create for the future, for the progress of the Confederacy. We have no patience with petty argument, tedious experimentation or the pointless splitting of hairs that seems to occupy so much of your time here. For us a scientist is a producer, like everyone else. If he fails to do his job we replace him.”

Pleased with the comparison the pilot chuckled over his dials as he turned on the power. Above the roar he said to Dirrul, “We must talk again one day, sir. If you ever have the good fortune to come to Vinin be sure to look me up.”

II

As the Vininese ship shot smoothly out into the night sky, Dirrul’s surface jet slashed back toward the Agronian capital. A synthetic tension, which he deliberately fed with nightmare improbabilities, kept him reasonably alert until he had safely returned the jet to its place in the compound. Then weariness engulfed him. Groggily he staggered to the pneumotube and within five minutes he was asleep in the small two-room worker’s apartment where he lived.

The insistent ping of the door visiscope woke him. Dirrul glanced at his wall clock and saw that it was still early morning. He had slept less than three hours. Swearing angrily he turned down the visiarm. Dr. Kramer’s serene aging white-bearded face was mirrored on the grey-tinted screen.

“Good morning, Edward,” Kramer said with excessive cheerfulness. “For a moment I was afraid I had missed you. I’ve brought a transcription of the lecture you missed yesterday.”

Dirrul swung out of bed and pushed the entry release. Soundlessly the thin metal door slid into the wall and the little professor bounced into the room. The door shot back into place.

“But you’re not dressed!” the professor exclaimed without the slightest regret. “I always supposed you Air-Command men had to report for work at eight.”

“Yesterday I was out on emergency call,” Dirrul said dully. “For twelve hours, so I’ve the morning off. I had planned to pound the pillow until–“

“Good! We can talk, then. I don’t have a class until ten and I always like to make the personal acquaintance of my students.” Dr. Kramer made himself comfortable in Dirrul’s Cloud-foam lounge, clasping his small, white hands over the little bulge of his belly. “Nice apartment you have here, Edward–excellent taste in furnishing.”

“You don’t mind if I shave and dress and have a bite of breakfast, Dr. Kramer?” Dirrul’s sarcasm was quite lost on the professor.

“Do, by all means,” Kramer said. “And you might order a pot of coffee for me.”