He suppressed a start, shedding his uniform tunic had not done much in the way of disguise.  It would be nice, he thought a little bitterly, if he could flash an I-S badge now to completely confuse the issue.  But he answered with the partial truth and did not enlarge.

“Yes—­”

The boy was flushed with excitement.  “I’m trying for Trade Service Medic,” he confided.  “Passed the Directive exam last month.  But I still have to go up for Prelim psycho—­”

Dane had a flash of memory.  Not too many months before not the Prelim psycho, but the big machine at the Assignment Center had decided his own future arbitrarily, fitting him into the crew of the Solar Queen as the ship where his abilities, knowledge and potentialities could best work to the good of the Service.  At the time he had resented, had even been slightly ashamed of being relegated to a Free Trading spacer while Artur Sands and other classmates from the Pool had walked off with Company assignments.  Now he knew that he would not trade the smallest and most rusty bolt from the solar Queen for the newest scout ship in I-S or Combine registry.  And this boy from the frontier village might be himself as he was five years earlier.  Though he had never known a real home or family, scrapping into the Pool from one of the children’s Depots.

“Good luck!” He meant that and the boy’s flush deepened.

“Thank you, sir.  Around here—­Father’s treatment room has this other door—­”

Dane allowed himself to be helped into the treatment room and sat down in a chair while the boy hurried off to locate the Medic.  The Trader’s hand went to the butt of his concealed blaster.  It was a job he had to do—­one he had volunteered for—­and there was no backing out.  But his mouth had a wry twist as he drew out the blaster and made ready to point it at the inner door.  Or—­his mind leaped to another idea—­could he get the Medic safely out of the village?  A story about another man badly injured—­perhaps pinned in the wreckage of an escape boat—­He could try it.  He thrust the blaster back inside his torn undertunic, hoping the bulge would pass unnoticed.

“My son says—­”

Dane looked up.  The man who came through the inner door was in early middle age, thin, wiry, with a hard, fined-down look about him.  He could almost be Tau’s elder brother.  He crossed the room with a brisk stride and came to stand over Dane, his hand reaching to pull aside the bloody cloth covering the Trader’s breast.  But Dane fended off that examination.

“My partner,” he said.  “Back there—­pinned in—­” he jerked his hand southward.  “Needs help—­”

The Medic frowned.  “Most of the men are out with the fleet.  Jorge,” he spoke to the boy who had followed him, “go and get Lex and Hartog.  Here,” he tried to push Dane back into the chair as the Trader got up, “let me look at that cut—­”

Dane shook his head.  “No time now, sir.  My partner’s hurt bad.  Can you come?”