“Some of us can still hope for more,” Horeger murmured in Murra’s ear.
“We’re getting plenty from you people in return, of course,” Blundy declared, paying no attention to what was going on at the other end of the table. “That’s what makes good business, a fair price both ways and everybody sat Is that the phone, Murra?”
It was. She looked resignedly amused. “Excuse me, please,” she said, getting up. “It won’t take me more than a minute “
In fact, it took less. She wasn’t out of the dining room before Grannis appeared from the kitchen, his flushed face looking sad. “Say, Murra,” he said, “this isn’t so good. It’s your sister. You know your nephew Porly? She says he’s in the hospital.”
While Murra was out of the room everybody, of course, had some sort of reassurance, or at least good wishes, to offer. But it was Horeger who said the thing that no one else said. He looked around the table, then turned to Blundy. “Is it this infant-mortality thing you people have?” he asked.
Vorian gave him a sharp look. “What infant-mortality thing is that?” he demanded.
Horeger looked surprised. “Oh, shouldn’t I have said anything? I mean, I wondered why you were so hot for all our medical data and so on, so I assumed that was it. All the babies that die, I mean.”
“Who told you about babies dying?” Vorian asked, but Blundy answered instead.
“What difference does it make who told him?” he asked reasonably. “That’s right, Horeger. We have a very high infant-mortality rate; it’s the worst thing about living here. And every time a ship comes by we hope they’ll have something we can use but they never have so far.”
“I thought so,” Horeger said, sounding satisfied.
“Believe me, Blundy, we want to help you any way we can”
“Oh, Christ,” Mercy MacDonald interrupted him.
“Why don’t you just shut up?”
Horeger turned a wrathful face on her. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” His voice was strangled, as though he was striving against insuperable odds for self-control. “I’m simply making a humanitarian offer of aid to people in need.”
“Yes? What kind of aid is that? We don’t even have a real doctor on Nordvik. ” She looked at Blundy. “I think,” she said, “the best thing we could do is mind our business.”
Vorian sighed. “We’d appreciate that,” he said softly. “And now I think it’s getting late for an old man to be out.”
When Murra came back they were all at the door, and unwilling to be cajoled into staying. “No, really,”
Horeger said apologetically, pressing her hand. “We really must go. Especially you, Mercy.”
MacDonald gave him a surprised look. “Me?”
Horeger nodded blandly. “To catch the shuttle back to Nordvik, ” he explained. “It’ll be taking off early in the morning and you’ll have to be on it.”
“I will?”
“It’s your job.” He was grinning at her, but quite determined. “You have to check out the rest of the cargo. Oh, you can come back down when that’s done, of course.”
MacDonald thought for a moment, then shrugged.
“I’ll do that,” she said. “Good night, Murra.”
And then all the good nights were said. It was too bad in a way, Murra thought, that Verla’s call about little Porly had spoiled the party. On the other hand, one major part of the party’s purpose had been to allow Blundy the chance to compare his wife and the challenging new woman side by side. Murra was quite content with the results.
Blundy offered to show Horeger and MacDonald back to the quarters they had been given, with the rest of Nordvik’s landing party. Vorian went along. But when Petoyne started to leave with them, Murra touched her arm in a friendly way. “Stay a little, please?” she urged. “I sent the servers home, so could you help me straighten things up?”
Petoyne couldn’t refuse that, as Murra had intended she couldn’t; and when, sulkily, the child began to pick up glasses to take them to the house-work room, Murra stopped her. “The cleaner will be back tomorrow to take care of that,” she said sweetly.
“Sit down, Petoyne. Help me finish that last bottle of wine you’re old enough now, surely. Just sit with me a minute, please.”
Petoyne was unwilling, but she was also very young. She did as she was told by the older woman whose husband she had borrowed. She watched without speaking while Murra fetched clean glasses from the sideboard and poured, chatting idly about the soup, that awful “scrimshaw” thing, the guests.
“I’m sorry about your nephew,” Petoyne offered.
Murra looked surprised, then shrugged. “It’s a pity, of course, but what can you do?” She sipped her wine, looking at Petoyne over the top of her glass. “You know, you’ve been very brave.”
Petoyne stiffened. “Me? Brave?”
“I don’t know what else to call it. I know this is difficult for you, dear,” Murra said, her tone sympathetic. “It’s an unfortunate situation. Blundy is a wonderful man, but he simply can’t help being drawn to attractive women.”
Petoyne, with her untouched wine glass before her, said stiffly, “If you’re talking about Mercy MacDonald, I don’t have anything to be brave about.
I happen to know Blundy and that woman aren’t lovers. Blundy would have told me.”
“No, I don’t suppose they are, now,” Murra agreed.
“But they surely will be, dear, and you mustn’t let yourself be hurt.”
Petoyne looked at her for a moment without speaking. Then she stood up, proud if young. “I’ll be all right, Murra. I do want to go home now.”
“Of course,” Murra smiled, and would have kissed her cheek at the door if the girl had given her a chance.
She gazed after her, quite content. They all had to learn, after all. These little peccadillos of Blundy’s were well sometimes hard to accept, as no one knew better than she. In the long run they didn’t matter, for what was certain was that such silly affairs were all temporary and in any case definitely did not threaten Blundy’s marriage to Murra. Sooner or later they always would end this one with the woman from the interstellar ship sooner than most, of course.
And, she thought, heading back into the house, it was an established fact that Blundy never went back to a previous mistress. Poor starship woman. Poor Petoyne.
Chapter Seven
When Mercy MacDonald pulled herself out of the shuttle into Nordvik’s hatch the first thing that struck her was how many people there were aboard the old ship, and how few of them she knew. The only one nearby was not one she really wanted to talk to, but she did her best to be amenable. “Hello, Maureen,” she said to Horeger’s wife, who was looking even sulkier than usual.
The woman grunted. “So how’s Slowyear?” she asked, managing to convey in three words her extreme irritation at not having already seen it for herself.
“It’s Fine. You’ll like it,” MacDonald said generously. “Do you know where Betsy arap Dee is?”
“Christ, no. I don’t know where anybody is,”
Maureen Horeger complained. “You could try the datastore room unless she’s shacked up with that damn Slowyear doctor again.”
“Thanks,” MacDonald said, quite pleased at the news. And when she found Betsy, in the datastore room after all, she was even more pleased to see the sparkle in her friend’s eyes. The health officer from Slowyear that, MacDonald supposed, had put it there wasn’t with her, but old Captain Hawkins was. So MacDonald didn’t think it the right time to ask the questions on her mind, although she was pretty sure she knew the answers anyway. “Horeger,” she said, “wants the complete manifest brought up to date, and I’m supposed to check it out. Can you help me?”