"Hold your goddam horses," he said, and jerked the door open. He was about to squeeze the goddam trigger but something stopped him. His visitor was cloaked in a brown robe that reached all the way to the floor. The face was hidden in the shadows of the hood. Some kind of monk? Franciscan, he thought, but there were no monasteries in Texas, and that sort of garb would be frowned on by the Anachronism Committee. So he probably hadn't entered through a public entrance. And there was a darker, wet stain on the robe that might be blood. The figure pulled the hood back slightly, and Henry frowned. The face was bloody, and it looked familiar.
"Sparky?" he asked.
"How are you, Doc?"
"You've grown up."
"Would you mind putting the gun down? It makes me..."
Nervous, Henry was about to finish for him, but Sparky staggered and almost fell forward. Henry caught him and pulled him inside.
"Sorry. I'll be all right."
"What in hell are you doing here?"
Sparky had been a regular in Texas for a while, shortly after his father left for Neptune. He had paid for poker lessons, without complaint, but not for long. Soon he was good enough to be invited to sit with the regulars. But that had all been a long time ago. Sparky had not visited Texas for over a year.
"I need to hide out for a little bit, Doc," he said.
"You're hurt."
"That, too. Can you patch me up? Just temporarily."
"Temporarily is the only way I do things, son, you know that."
"It's nothing serious."
"Looks serious enough to me. Let me see that shoulder."
Sparky slipped the robe down, and Dr. Henry Wauk gasped. He had seldom seen so much blood. It had dried and cracked all over the boy's body, and oozed fresh from half a dozen slash wounds. The beige singlet he wore under the robe had been cut to ribbons. He looked like he'd been mauled by a wild animal.
"Lion-taming lessons," Sparky explained, and tried to smile.
"I know what you've been trying to tame, son, and he ain't civilizable. Now you sit right there and I'm going to call the police and we'll—"
Sparky grabbed Henry's wrist and held on strongly.
"Please, Doc. I'm asking you as a favor from an old poker buddy. Just patch me up, and I'll be on my way."
Henry Wauk looked into the boy's eyes. He seemed about fifteen or sixteen, though he knew his age was closer to thirty. That's what decided him. Wauk had never been much for sticking his nose into other folks' business. If the kid wasn't a minor child, well then, how he chose to live his life was his own business. He sighed.
"Let's get those clothes off. This is going to hurt. A lot."
He had boiled water in jars. He used this to clean the wounds, though he didn't know how sterile his cloths and bandages were. There weren't a lot of dangerous bugs on Luna, even in Texas, but they could not be eliminated entirely. If the wounds got infected, Sparky would have to seek out real help.
"Thank god I can't be sued for malpractice," he muttered.
There was Merthiolate and tincture of iodine. At least the wounds would be colorful. He swabbed with alcohol then wrapped them in the cleanest bandages he had.
Sparky had slashing wounds to his left cheek, his side, both legs, both arms. But the most serious was a deep puncture just below the clavicle. No major veins had been hit, but Henry couldn't stop the wound from seeping blood.
"These are going to leave some mighty fine scars," he said. Sparky continued to stare off into space, as he had since sitting down on the treatment table. He had not cried out, though it must be hurting him.
"I suppose you can have them removed later." He wiped at the nasty slash on the boy's face. It ran across the cheek and had split the bridge of his nose. Luckily, it did not run deep.
"Cat got your tongue, huh?"
"What's that?" Sparky's eyes focused, and he winced. Henry regretted talking; wherever the lad had been, it seemed to be away from the pain.
"I guess there's nothing to talk about," Henry allowed.
"Henry, I need to get off-planet. Quietly."
"Well, that's the only sensible thing you've said so far. I think that's a good idea. Get away from him for a while." Henry knew John Valentine had been away for some time, and he'd heard something about his return. Where was it, Neptune? Out yonder somewhere. He was vague about places off Luna, which he had never left and never intended to. If God had intended man to go whooshing around in space, Henry felt He would have given us rockets in our butts.
"Well, I figure you can afford just about anyplace you want to go."
"Money's not the problem. I need to do it quietly. Even grown up, I'm too easy to recognize, and there's the computers and all."
"Computers?"
"I get on a spaceship, even with a disguise and an alias, there's reporters who've got programs looking out for me. People who like to be aware of my movements."
Like your father, Henry thought.
"Hard to move around when you're a goddam celebrity, huh?"
"You got that right."
As he worked, Henry thought about it. He didn't expect any results, because if Sparky, with his modern sophistication, couldn't figure a way around it, what was an old country doctor going to do? An old, phony country doctor.
But to his surprise, something kept tickling at the edges of his mind. He needed a drink, so he paused and took a deep swig from the office jug, which was likely to contain just about anything. There had been one memorable evening when...
He narrowed his eyes. He had something. Not what he'd been looking for, but something.
"You know, I recollected something a while back."
"If it's what I'm thinking of, don't reach for any scalpels," Sparky said.
"How's that?"
"I saw you starting to remember. About the jug."
"You doctored it, didn't you? That day your father almost killed you."
"I'm sorry, Henry. That was twenty years ago. I didn't know you then."
"Don't worry. I'm not pissed off." Sparky thought he might be if he knew exactly what had gone into the jug. It shows how wrong you can be. "That pop-skull was the damnedest stuff I ever drank. I lost three days. My spit turned blue. I saw things most drunks don't even dream about."
"I'm surprised it didn't kill you."
"Came damn near. I lost a kidney, and a liver." Henry shrugged. "Hell, I was due for a new liver, anyway. What I was wondering... do you remember what you put in the jug? You think you could do it again?"
Sparky said he could certainly try. And then Henry had it.
"Say, your dad told me one time about a brother. Maybe he could give you a hand. He isn't connected with the studio, is he?"
"Uncle Ed?"
"Yeah, used to be a big star. Ed..."
"Ed Ventura. His real name is Edwin Booth Valentine. He's my dad's younger brother."
"Well, maybe he can help."
"I don't see how. And I hardly know him. I haven't seen him in maybe twenty years or more."
"Then he ought to be all the more glad to see you."
The sign over the door said SENSUALIST COLLECTIVE. That's all. It was a plain, ordinary glass door and looked in on a plush reception room. Sparky could see several more doors in there, and comfortable couches, tables with huge arrangements of fresh flowers, ornate wallpaper, and big reproductions of works by classical artists of the heroic school. It reminded him of the lobby of a small, plush hotel, but the listing in the Yellow Screens had said only Retreat. Retirement home, more likely, Sparky thought. When his father had mentioned Uncle Ed at all, he said he was in retirement.