"Stop," she said calmly. "I don't want to turn the Doves loose on you."
"Then get out of here!" he demanded. The floor of the cage was slippery with a kind of odorous slime. Part of it was the spaceling's blood, undoubtedly, but there was more—decaying small things that Ryeland couldn't recognize; perhaps they were animals that had come with the spaceling. The stench was powerful and sickening, but Ryeland didn't let it stop him. If that girl could stand it, that dainty creature who lived in an atmosphere of lilac blossoms and ease, certainly he could!
She was bending over the creature, reaching down to caress its golden fur. "Drop that chain," she ordered over her shoulder. "It's afraid of you."
It flinched from her touch at first. Then it relaxed. It licked at her face with a long black tongue. A sudden rumble filled the cage, like the purr of a giant cat.
There was an eruption of noise from outside. Colonel Gottling, radar-horned, deep eyes blazing fury out of the face like a skull, came racing in with a dozen men in Technicorps scarlet. "Get her out of there, you fool!" he roared, waving the electric prod at Ryeland.
The spaceling saw him and the enormous purr stopped. The creature began to whimper and tremble. "Hold it!" cried Ryeland. "You're frightening the spaceling. It may attack Miss Creery!"
But Donna Creery needed no help from him just then. On her knees in the bloody slime, she looked up from the torn, blood-crusted fur of the creature and her eyes were a hawk's eyes. "Colonel Gottling," she said in a thin voice that cut like knives. "I've been wanting to talk to you!"
The skull-faced colonel swallowed but stood his ground. "You must get out of there, Miss Creery! The animal is dangerous. It has already wounded half a dozen men!"
"And what were the men doing to the spaceling?" The girl bent to pat the golden battered head. Two or three fat green flies were buzzing through the thinning cloud of light around the wounds on the spaceling's flanks. "Filthy," she said with scorn. "I want this cleaned up!"
She stood up and gestured Ryeland ahead of her out of the cage. "I want a meeting of the whole Team," she said coldly, closing the cage door behind her, "and I want it now! Meanwhile, Gottling, have your men clean that cage out. And if I catch any of them using that prod again, I'll see how they like it used on themselves!"
Gottling turned purple. In a voice stiff with self-control he said: "It is no longer my project, Miss Creery. Mr. Ryeland has taken it over."
"I give it back," said the girl. "I have another use for Mr. Ryeland."
Ryeland said, shocked: "But the Machine ordered—"
"I'll take care of the Machine," she said calmly. "Get started on this cage, you men! The spaceling needs her symbiotic partners and they're dying fast." She turned to the door. "Now let's have that meeting," she said grimly. "I want to get a few things straight!"
They were back at Point Crescent Green. The Team was buzzing like flies around the spaceling's wounds.
Donna Creery dominated the meeting. Major Chatterji tittered shyly and General Fleemer made half a dozen speeches on Teamwork; Colonel Gottling was in an icy rage and Colonel Lescure fluttered objections. But not one of them could stand up against the girl.
She blazed: "If that animal dies, she's going to take the lot of you with her! I've got news for you. There's a shortage of salvage material at the Body Bank." She stared around the room appraisingly. "Some of you would make pretty good spare parts. Do I make myself clear?"
"Quite clear," General Fleemer said humbly. "But, Miss Creery, our Team objective—"
"Shut up," she said mildly. "Yes? What is it?"
Machine Major Chatterji said with great respect: "There's a message for you on the teletype."
"It can wait." There was an audible gasp but the girl paid no attention. "From this date forward, Mr. Ryeland is in charge of the Team."
General Fleemer choked and sputtered: "Miss Creery, a Risk can't be put-"
"Yes, a Risk can," Donna Creery contradicted. "Oh, all right. Here, I'll get orders for you." She walked through them to the teletype, calmly pressed the "Interrupt" switch—another gasp swept through the Team— and began to type. In a moment the Machine's answer rattled back:
Action. Fleemer Team will comply with directive of Donna Creery
"Anything else bothering you?" she demanded.
"Nothing," croaked General Fleemer. His toad eyes bulged more than ever.
"All right. Now the rest of you clear out. Ryeland, I want to talk to you."
Whispering among themselves, but not audibly, the Team filed out of the conference room. Donna Creery stretched and yawned, the Peace Doves fluttering and cooing. "That's better," she said drowsily. "What are you doing?"
Ryeland coughed. "There seems to be a message coming in for you, Miss Creery," he said.
"There always is," she sighed. She stood behind him, one arm casually on his shoulder, reading:
Information. Planner Creery en route from Mombasa to Capetown. Information. Donna Creery personal rocket refueled and serviced. Information. London Philharmonic acknowledges receipt of opening season program instructions. Action. Request choice of soloist Beethoven piano concerto. Information. Moon colony Alpha-Six requests presence Donna Creery 25th anniversary celebration. Information.
"The usual run of thing," the girl said absently. "It can wait." She looked around. "This place depresses me. Haven't you got a room of your own? Let's go there." She didn't wait for an answer; she got up and beckoned Ryeland to follow.
He was not surprised to find that she knew the way. There seemed to be very little this girl didn't know!
But the situation was getting out of hand.
This girl was giving orders to an entire Research Team. It wasn't her place to do that. Everybody knew that! Under the Plan of Man it was the Machine that gave orders. Human beings—even Planners' daughters —were supposed to do their own job (perfectly) and nobody else's. That was plain logic, the logic of the Plan.
He stood stiffly holding the door to his room, meditating what to say to her. She walked in, looking curiously about; he followed, leaving the door ajar.
"Oh, close it," she said impatiently. "Don't you think my Peace Doves are chaperones enough?" She laughed at the expression on his face, threw herself at full length on his bed and lit a cigarette. The dislodged Peace Doves cooed complainingly and found roosts for themselves on the iron headboard.
Grudgingly Ryeland closed the door. He nodded to the teletype. "Don't you want to check in?"
"The Machine'll find me," Donna Creery said cheerfully. "You watch." And, sure enough, the words were hardly out of her mouth when the keys began to rattle away:
Information. Marseilles Planning Council asks Donna Creery give annual Plan Awards. Information. Life Magazine requests permission use photograph Donna Creery on Woman of the Year cover. Information—
"Someone's always available to tell the Machine where I've gone," the girl told Ryeland seriously. "And if not—well, the Machine can usually make a pretty good guess where I'll be. It knows me pretty well by now."
She spoke, Ryeland noticed wonderingly, as though the Machine were an old friend. But she didn't give him much chance to speculate on that; she said abruptly: "You're not much, Steve, but you're better than those others. Can you keep my spaceling alive?"
"Your spaceling?"
She laughed. "It's mine because I like it. Everything I like belongs to me—that's the way I want it." She added seriously: "But I don't know yet whether or not I like you."
He said, the back of his neck bristling, "I have my duty, Miss Creery. I'm going to do it! I hope it won't mean any further discomfort to the spaceling, but, if it does—Do you see this?" He tugged angrily at his collar. "I want that off! If I have to kill a million spacelings to get it off, I'll do it!"