CHAPTER 3

 He was awake again with the first light; got up and wandered restlessly into the pantry. In a few minutes he heard Waverill stirring. "Murdoch!" came the older man's voice.

Murdoch went to him. "Yes, sir. I was just going to get breakfast."

"I can see the light!"

"You—that's wonderful, sir!"

"I can see the light! Dammit, where are you? Take me outside!"

"It's no brighter out there, sir." Murdoch was dismayed. He'd counted on another day before Waverill's sight began to return; with a chance to arrange a broken drinking glass, a knife in Waverill's way, something to bring blood in an apparent accident. Now....

"Take me outside!"

"Yes, sir." Murdoch, his mind spinning, guided the older man.

The door slid open for them and Waverill crowded through. As he stepped on the gravel with his bare feet, he said, "Ouch! Damn it!"

"Step lightly, sir, and it won't hurt." Murdoch had a sudden wild hope that Waverill would cut his feet on a sharp pebble. But there were no sharp pebbles; they were all rounded; and the light gravity made it even more unlikely.

Waverill raised his head and swung it to the side. "I can see spots of light up there."

"The sunlamps, sir. They're getting brighter."

"I can see where they are." The older man's voice was shaky. He looked toward Murdoch. "I can't see you, though."

"It'll come back gradually, sir. Why don't you have breakfast now?"

Waverill told him what to do with breakfast. "I want to stay out here. How bright is it now? Is it like full daylight yet?"

"No, sir. It'll be a while yet. You'll be able to feel it on your skin." Murdoch was clammy with the fear that the other's sight would improve too fast. He looked around for some sharp corner, some twig he could maneuver the man into. He didn't see anything.

"What's that sweet smell?" Waverill wanted to know.

"Flowers, sir. There's a blossoming hedge around the walkways."

"I'll be able to see flowers again. I'll...." The older man caught himself as if ashamed. "Tell me what this place looks like."

Murdoch described the grounds, meanwhile guiding Waverill slowly around the curved path. Somewhere, he thought, there'll be something sharp I can bump him into. He had a wild thought of running the man into a wall; but a bloody nose would be too obvious.

"I can feel the warmth now," Waverill said, "and I can tell that they're brighter." He was swiveling his head and squinting, experimenting with his new traces of vision.

Murdoch carried on a conversation with half his attention, while his mind churned. He thought, I'll have to resist the feeling that it's safer here in back of the building. They'll be watching everywhere. He wished he could get the man inside; under the cover of serving breakfast he could improvise something. I'm sweating, he thought. I can just begin to feel the lamps, but I'm wet all over. I've got to—

He drew in his breath sharply. From somewhere he heard the buzz of a bee. His mind leaped upon the sound. He stopped walking, and Waverill said, "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I—stepped on a big pebble."

"They all feel big to me. Damned outrage; taking away a man's...." Waverill's voice trailed off as he started experimenting with his eyes again.

There were more bees now, and presently Murdoch saw one loop over the edge of the building and search along the hedge. The first of them, he thought. There'll be more. He looked along the hedge. Most of the blossoms hadn't really closed for the night, though the petals were drawn together. He walked as slowly as he dared. The buzzing moved tantalizingly closer, then away.

A second buzz added itself. He heard the insect move past them, then caught it in the corner of his eye.

Waverill stopped. "Is that a bee? Here?"

"I guess they keep them to fertilize the plants, sir."

"They bother me. I can't tell where they are."

"I'll watch out for them, sir."

He could see the insect plainly now, and thought, I have an excuse to watch it. The buzz changed pitch as the bee started to settle, then changed again as it moved on a few feet. Murdoch clamped his teeth in frustration. He tried to wipe his free hand where trousers should have been, and discovered that his thigh was sweaty too. He thought, surely Waverill must feel how sweaty my arm is.

The bee flirted with another flower, then settled on a petal. Tense, Murdoch subtly moved Waverill toward the spot. He could see every move of the insect's legs as it crawled into the bell of the flower.

"You can smell the blossoms more now, sir," he said. His throat felt dry, and he thought his voice sounded odd. "It's warming up and bringing out the smell, I guess." He halted, and tried not to let his arm tense or tremble. "This is a light blue blossom. Can you see it?"

"I—I'm not sure. I can see a bright spot a little above my head and right in front of me."

"That's a reflection off the ice, sir. The flower's down here." Holding his breath, he took Waverill's hand and moved it toward the flower. He found himself gritting his teeth and wincing as Waverill's fingers explored delicately around the flower.

The bee crawled out, apparently not aware of anything unusual, and moved away a few inches. It settled on a leaf and began working its legs together.

Murdoch felt like screaming.

Waverill's fingers stopped their exploration, then, as the bee was silent, began again. Waverill bent over to bring his eyes closer to his hand.

Shaking with anxiety now, Murdoch executed the small movements of his right hand that forced the tiny instrument out from between his thumb and forefinger. He felt a panicky desire to hurry, and forced himself to move slowly. He transferred the tiny syringe to his left hand, which was nearer Waverill. Waverill was about to pluck the blossom. Murdoch moved his right hand forward, trying—in case the aliens could see, though he had his body in the way—to make the move casual. He flicked a finger near the bee.

The bee leaped into the air, its buzz high-pitched and loud. Waverill tensed.

Murdoch cried, "Look out, sir!" and grabbed at Waverill's hand. He jabbed the miniature syringe into the fleshy part of the hand, at the outside, just below the wrist.

"Damn you!" Waverill bellowed, slapping at his right hand with his left. He jerked away from Murdoch.

"Here, sir! Let me help you!"

"Get away from me, you clumsy fool!"

"Please, sir. Let me get the stinger out. You'll squeeze more poison into your skin."

Waverill faced him, a hand raised as if to strike. Then he lowered it. "All right, damn you; and be careful about it."

Shakily, Murdoch took Waverill's hand. The syringe, dangling from the skin, held a trace of red in its minute plastic bulb. Murdoch gasped for breath and fought to make his fingers behave. He got hold of the syringe and drew it out. Pretending to drop it, he hid it in the junction of the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. He kept his body between them and the building, and tried to make his actions convincing. "There. It's out, sir."

Waverill was still cursing in a low voice. Presently he stopped, but his face was still hard with anger. "Take me inside."

"Yes, sir." Murdoch was weak with reaction. He drew a painful breath, gave the older man his left arm and led him back.

The tiny thing between his fingers felt as large and as conspicuous as a handgun.