"Some wine?" Jocelyn extended a glass filled with amber glintings. "Sip," he advised, "your throat is probably a little tender."
"Thank you, my lord." Heldar sat upright and turned his head. Erlan sat at a microscope studying a slide. As he watched he changed it for another and increased the magnification.
"Well?" said Jocelyn.
"There is no doubt, my lord." Erlan straightened from his instrument and casually threw both slides into an incinerator. A flash of blue flame converted them both to ash. "The man is suffering from a fungous infection, obviously parasitic and of some duration. It could have been caused by a single spore which has increased by geometrical progression. Both lungs are affected, the left almost hopelessly so, and the inevitable result, unless there is surgery, is death."
Heldar gulped his wine, oblivious of the sting to his throat.
Jocelyn was gentle. "Therapy?"
"The infection is aerobic. It would be possible to seal and collapse one lung and coat the area infected of the other with inhibiting compounds. The capability of respiration would be greatly reduced; the patient would have to rest with the minimum of effort for at least a year."
"The alternative?"
"Complete transplants, my lord, either from an organ bank or from new organs grown from the patient's cells. The former would be quicker, the latter more to be preferred, but in both cases a major operation coupled with extensive therapy is unavoidable."
"But he would live?"
Erlan sounded a little impatient. "Certainly, my lord, the operation would be a matter of routine."
"Thank you," said Jocelyn. "You may leave us." He turned and poured Heldar more wine. "You heard?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And understood?" Jocelyn was insistent. "I mean really understood?"
"Unless I receive an operation I shall inevitably die," said Heldar, and then added, "my lord."
Jocelyn sighed. "Exactly. I wanted to be sure you fully comprehended the situation. I can, of course, arrange for you to have the necessary treatment but there are conditions."
"Anything," blurted Heldar, "anything at all, my lord."
"You would come with me to Jest under restrictive indenture?"
Heldar nodded. What had he to lose? "When?" he asked. "The treatment, my lord, when would it be given?"
"That," said Jocelyn softly, "depends entirely on yourself; not as to when, of course, but whether or not it will be given at all." He reached behind him to where the wine stood on a table. A coin rested beside the bottle. He picked it up and tossed it to Heldar. "Look at it," he invited. "It will decide your fate."
"My lord?"
"On one side you will see the head of a man. I have scratched a line across his cheek, a scar. The other side bears the arms of Jest. Spin the coin. Should it fall with that side uppermost you will receive your needed treatment, but if the other side should be uppermost, the scar, then you belong to this world and I will not help you."
Heldar looked at the coin, then raised his eyes. "My life to depend on the spin of a coin? My lord, surely you jest?"
"No," said Jocelyn, "I do not jest." His voice hardened. "Spin!"
The coin rose, glinting, a blur as it climbed to hesitate and fall ringing to the deck. Jocelyn glanced at it, his face expressionless. Unbidden, Heldar rose, crossed to where it lay and looked down at the shining disk. He felt the sudden constriction of his stomach.
"Luck is against you," said Jocelyn quietly. "It seems that you are fated to die."
* * *
The interior of the shed was cool with a brisk crispness which stung like a shower of ice, refreshing as it hurt, waking senses dulled with seemingly endless heat. Kel Zopolis paused, enjoying the coolness, and then, remembering the cost, walked quickly down the shed.
"Wandara!"
"Here, Boss." The overseer came from behind a machine, wiping his hands on a scrap of waste, his white teeth flashing against the ebon of his skin. "The cooling plant is switched off," he said before the agent could raise the matter. "I was just testing the machines to make sure they'll work when we want them."
"And?"
"Fully operational," said the overseer, "hoppers, slicers, balers, everything." He walked beside Zopolis down the length of the shed and opened a door, waiting for the agent to pass through before following him and closing the panel.
Beyond lay a second shed filled with equipment. A line of rafts, each with a thousand cubic feet of loading capacity, rested against one wall. Suits, boots, masks and sprays hung neatly on hooks. A heap of wide-bladed machetes rested on a bench beside a grinding wheel. They were thirty inches from pommel to point, the blades slightly curved and four inches across at the widest part. Zopolis lifted one and swung it, enjoying the heft and balance of the well-designed tool.
Wandara spoke as he tested the edge.
"I'm sharpening them up, Boss, giving them a real, fine edge. They'll cut through any fungus on the planet."
And more than a swollen stem, thought the agent, as he replaced the machete. He remembered a time two seasons back, or perhaps three, when two crews had fallen out, each accusing the other of cheating. Then the machetes had been used as swords. Even now he could remember the mess, the blood and the cries of the wounded.
"The rafts," he said. "I want them all ready to operate within five hours."
"They're ready now, Boss." Wandara sounded hurt. "You didn't think I'd play around with machetes if the rafts needed checking?"
"No," said Zopolis. Pride, he thought. I've hurt his pride. Aloud he said, "I'm sorry. It was foolish of me to ask."
The overseer grunted, mollified. "Starting to harvest, Boss?"
"Soon. I'm taking a survey to check the state of the crop. If it's ready we'll start right away. In any case, you can pass the word that we'll be needing men."
"Sure, Boss. The same terms?"
"Piecework, yes, but we've got to cut the price by five percent." Zopolis didn't look at the other man. "It isn't my doing," he said. "I'm just following orders. It's a reduction all along the line."
"The processing sheds too?"
"Yes, but we'll reserve those jobs for the weak and incapable." The ones who've starved too much and too long, he thought, the ill, the chronically sick, the dying. "I'll have a word with Brother Glee about that. He'll know who to pick." He glanced sharply at the overseer. "Something on your mind?"
"Heldar, Boss, I don't want him around."
"Why not? He's a regular."
"He's trouble. There's talk of someone moving claim markers and stealing original finds. I don't figure on letting him use our rafts and our time for his own business."
"He was on scout duty," mused Zopolis thoughtfully. "It would give him the opportunity. Do you think he's guilty?"
Wandara shrugged. "I don't know, Boss. He could be; he knows a lot about electronics and could rig up a detector. I just don't want him around."
"Ground him," decided the agent. "Put him to work here in the sheds. Give him three days; and if he starts to loaf, get rid of him."
Leaving the overseer, he walked down the shed to where the door stood open. He opened it still more and stepped outside. The sun was nearing its zenith and the heat was stifling. The dull red light of the sun stained the ground, the buildings and the faces of those walking about the station, so that it seemed they all lived in a giant oven.
He caught a glimpse of motion and turned. A raft was rising from Hightown, anti-gravity plates robbing it of weight and the engine sending it silently through the air. Beneath a transparent canopy, a cluster of tourists sat in air-conditioned comfort. They were all looking downward at the weird forest of colorful growths spreading all around the station to the limits of visibility.