It did open.
Klairon was pacing the room, back turned at the moment the door opened. He whirled like a caged lion and roared, "HOW DARE YOU! ... GET OUT OF HERE ... OUT!"
Welch stood his ground. "Klairon, what's got into you? Calm down, man. I only want to talk to you. I want to help if I can," advancing slowly into the room, he closed the door. "Tell me what's wrong. What happened?"
Klairon bit out an oath in Simelan. Poised on the far side of the couch, he was rubbing his forearms with a kind of frantic desperation Welch had never seen before. The delicate lateral tentacles were flicking in and out of their wrist openings like tiny, moist, pink-gray tongues, quivering nervously in Welch's invisible selyn field.
The Captain was totally unaware that this was the visage of a Sime about to pounce and kill for his need. His distant ancestors had never seen this and lived to tell of it. But they would have been afraid. Welch wasn't because it was almost forgotten that Simes had ever attacked Gens. And that may have been what saved his life. A Gen's fear triggers the predator's aggressive instinct in a Sime.
Swallowing sudden excess saliva, Klairon indicated the couch and resumed pacing. "So talk, but don't expect any answers."He couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice.
Welch stood his ground, his back against the door, hands behind him. "Klairon, I don't understand. This has something to do with your condition?"
Again Klairon whirled on him, "OF ..." he stopped himself, swallowed again, and bit out another oath, breathing harder.
"You don't have to swear at me," Welch admonished mildly, "even if I don't understand."
Klairon straightened, eyes closed, biting his lip and after a moment, something of the channel's rigid control glossed over the hunted animal look. He wiped the sweat from his hands and toweled his forehead with his handkerchief, and then absently continued rubbing his wrists with it.
"Sir," his voice shook uncontrollably but his face, even his lips, seemed chiseled from flint, "have I your permission to use drugs?"
Welch's frown deepened, if that were possible. "You're no good to me like this ... yes, Mr. Farris, you may use whatever drugs you find necessary to regain control of yourself."
Striding to a selyn-locked cabinet concealed in the wall next to his bunk, Klairon took two tablets, locked up very carefully and went through the door at the foot of his bunk and down the little hall to his bathroom. He swallowed the tablets with some water and leaned over the sink, shaking from head to foot, wishing he had a lemon to bite.
As a man dying of thirst in the desert sees water everywhere, he was seeing salvation in a general class Donor, a GN-3. He knew... intellectually ... that a kill of a GN-3 would be no more satisfying to him than raw meat would be to a civilized man. No, he didn't need a GN-3. He'd wait.
After a few minutes, he splashed his face with cold water and observed himself in the mirror; the closest thing to a nervous wreck he'd ever seen, but the drug was washing most of it out of his system and taking the fine edge off his senses.
He extended his laterals. They were dripping with ronaplin, nature's selyn-conduction inducing miracle. Resolutely, he washed it away and then considered applying an inhibiting cream. But, no, he might need it again, soon. The drug was enough. Transfer-abort was hard on a Sime, even on a channel. His laterals were still throbbing with his pulse, but soon the drug would handle that, too.
Then his eyes fell on the twin gold bands lying on the glassite shelf over the sink. The attenuators he'd discarded ... it seemed years ago ... when he'd come aboard. It was a great temptation, but ... no ... he still must monitor the selyn-powered support systems.
He ran a comb through his hair and cursed the gene that gave him such expressive lips. Even the drug wouldn't keep them from betraying him. He closed his eyes a moment to summon the last shreds of his channel's much vaunted control, wishing he'd heeded the premonition in Terwhoolie. Then, firmly, he turned and went back down the two meter hall.
Welch was still braced against the door, frank curiosity replacing the frown.
Klairon said formally, "Thank you sir. I must beg your forgiveness for such an unseemly display. I can only plead extenuating circumstances."
"You ready to go back to work?" Welch was skeptical. He knew that no Sime would mount the bridge under the influence of drugs.
"I fear that's impossible, sir."
"Come on, Klairon, unbend! I'm not going to put you on report, but I am demanding an explanation."
Klairon didn't unbend. He stood as much at attention as a merchant officer ever would and spoke woodenly, eyes front. "Begging the Captain's pardon, but you'll have to put me on report, sir. When you log my drug request, you'll have to explain it. Your contract with the Astrogators' Union demands that. They'll refer it to SBS. SBS will judge my actions." From his tone, he obviously felt he was in the clear logically.
"Dammit, Klairon, how can I explain it when I don't even understand it!"
"I can say no more."
"You can say a helluva lot more!" Welch broke off surprised at himself. "Now, look what you've done! You've made me lose my temper for the first time in twenty years." He paused to switch to a "be reasonable" tone. "As the Captain of this ship, I have to know what's going on. If my Astrogator throws a screaming fit and runs off the bridge in the middle of a countdown, I've got to know why. I've got to know when we'll get going again. And I've got to answer for the delay. In case you've forgotten, this isn't just another run. There's a great deal more at stake than a profit."
Welch waited for that to sink in, then went on. "Now, sit down and talk to me, man to man, like you did on Terwhoolie."
Klairon balanced on his toes a moment remembering that Welch had won the last round and that's why they were in this mess, now. Then the starch seemed to go out of him. Again, he gestured the Captain to the couch and sat on his bunk. "Captain ... there are a few things you ought to know."
Welch sat on the end of the couch near the bunk. "I'm listening," he nodded.
Staring fixedly into the polished black of his boots, Klairon spoke carefully. "I'm sitting here . .. more or less calmly... due only to the tremendous dose of Adinamine in my system.You should note that name and log it." He spelled it emphasizingthe two "i's" because they were pronounced "ee".
"It's one of the items you got from Olijon, and it's," Klairon's lips curled in disgust, "the most powerful wide-spectrum suppressant. It acts like an impedance; I'm monitoring the infinitesimal currents of the ship's selyn-powered equipment as usual, but I cannot, under any circumstances, survive the swift, massive flows of a 'live' transfer. Furthermore, it renders the mere thought of 'live' transfer repulsive.
"Now, you can appreciate the severity of the measures I find necessary; you should be able to appreciate the gravity of the situation."
Welch considered this seriously for a moment. "How long do we sit here?"
"I wish I knew."
"Take a guess."
"I'd say no more than five days at the most."
"Five days! You know we can't wait that long!"
"It could only be a couple of hours. In any event, it's not up to me. I can only wait."
"Not up to you! Then who is it up to?"
Klairon's face went blank but his voice became choked. "I can say no more."
"All right." Welch backed off. "I appreciate the gravity of the situation, but I've still no idea what the situationis."