Waking was no better. He hurt and ached and felt sick, or maybe poisoned, and had no energy. He didn't get fed,

385.

because his nourishment came directly into his veins, they told him. His mind moved upstairs out of the way, where it didn't have to pay so much attention to the things that made his body convulse, wracking in spasms. Barton hadn't had the dry heaves since the morning after he drank half a fifth of Southern Comfort when he was in junior college, but compared to what he had now, the earlier version seemed easy. He began to think he might be learning what a friend's sister must have felt- like, shrinking and slowly dying while chemotherapy failed to stop the carcinoma that had eluded the radical surgery.

When nausea is the whole world, not a hell of a lot else

can really matter.

There came a time when Barton wanted out, oufbf all

of it. So that sometimes he cursed the stubborn thing with- in him, that wouldn't let him give up, ever. But then he realized that he was that thing. So there was no escape, at all.

At first-how many days later?-be didn't recognize the woman leaning down to face him. He knew, vaguely, that she'd been here before, and often. But she couldn't be anyone he knew, because none of the women in his college classes had foreheads that reached back to the ears. He couldn't understand anything she said, either.

Later-though he had no concept of time-some of her words came clearer to him, and he remembered a few things, and tried to speak. But this woman, her knew, couldn't be Limila, because Limila was either bald or wore & wig, and this person had a faint shadow of dark fuzz on her head, growing in the TUaran pattern. Not, therefore, Limila. The hell with it; Barton turned away

and settled into fretful sleep.

Then one day he woke without nausea; he felt weak, but not sick. On a hunch, he looked and saw that the low-frequency electrode was gone from his belly; he didn't feel the ache-inducing stimulus at his neck, either. And when Limila walked in, this time he knew her. Her scalp carried more than a centimeter of new hair, so if Tilarans grew the stuff at the same rate as Eartbani, Barton figui^d he must. have been in Limbo just about an Earth-iriSnth.

Careful to avoid the plumbing, she sat on the edge of his bed. Her bulge was prominent now; Barton couldn't remember whether Earthwomen, when they began ex- panding, did it in such a hurry.

386.

She leaned across and kissed him. "Barton-you are past the worst part now?" He nodded. "Only a few days more, and you can come away from this place."

"That's good." His voice came out sounding like an old man's. "How's Cheng and Myra?"

"They have had less difficulty than you. Because they are younger, perhaps. Two days ago I took both to Tevann's home. They are weak, of course, and have lost much weight, as you have. But recovery should not take any great time. Nor for you, either."

Barton had his doubts about that last part, but all he could do was wait and see. "Anything been happening, I should know?"'

"Yes, Barton. And not good." Two ships from Tarle- ton's fleet had returned, several days apart. The first had landed as directed, and ap Fenn's Marines had taken the crew into custody. The captain of the second ship had asked to talk to his opposite number on the first, or to Barton. When ap Fenn denied the request and repeated the landing orders, that skipper told the admiral where to go, and tried to make a run for it. Ap Fenn's faster, more heavily weaponed escort ships blew him out of space.

"And that was the end of Ship Thirty-four and our friend Captain Lombard."

"Lombard!" Ship Thirty-four, one of the two that had gone with Barton on the strike force to Sisshain. And his mind formed the picture of ii small Hindu woman, black braid reaching her knees, who looked to be twelve years old-Miss Chindra, the genius-grade computer expert on Lombard's ship. "That maniac-that murderer, ap Fenn!

I'll-" He found himself trying to sit up, but his outburst threw him into a fit of coughing and he lay back, Limila's hands trying to hold him quiet. "All right; I'll be good,"

"Barton, you must not excite yourself at this time."

"Sure not." But he felt his jaw muscles clamp; relaxing them took a conscious effort. Rage shook him, and grief;

without warning be found himself sobbing so hard it hurt him in the guts. Limila held him, and after a time he could stop.

"Is it all right now. Barton?"

He shook his head. "It never will be. Not while ap Fenn's alive." The admiral had been hunting them, had he? From now, it was a new ball game. Once on his feet, and back in some kind of working shape. Barton was going to be the hunter.

387.

He didn't know how, just yet, but he'd think of some- thing.

Five days later, Limila came to take him to Tevann's.

Barton said his good-byes to the Tilaran doctors and all the staff members he could find on short notice, and walked his slow, fragile way to the car outside. Riding through mist and a light drizzle, with hazy sunlight still making the day brighter than not, he kept silent,- On ar- rival, he got a boisterous welcome; his shipmates and their hosts came outside as soon as the car stopped, and all talked at once as they accommodated themselves to his pace, going in. Lunch was accompanied by quite a lot of wine. Barton wasn't used to the stuff lately, so afterward he took a nap. He hadn't spoiled everybody's fun by mak- ing the slightest mention of Karsen ap Fenn.

Later that day, and from then on, Barton applied him- self to getting some strength back. He'd lost more than ten kilos of weight, and a lot of it had to be muscle. So, having to start more slowly than he'd like or would have believed, he undertook a program of exercise and rest and diet. He ate more than he wanted, and worked himself to the point of nausea and near to collapse.

He didn't keep track of the days, only of his own prog- ress. And for now, he said nothing to anyone, of his in- tentions toward the admiral. When he had some kind of good plan was time enough.

Finding a way to kill ap Fenn wasn't the hard part;

the trouble was that Barton wanted to kill only ap Tenn, not a whole ship or maybe half the second fleet. So he couldn't simply he his way into control of a Tilaran ship, and put a Larka-Te high-drive torpedo into the Big Hun- dred. That's the way ap Feoa would have done it, likely, in Barton's shoes-but that was precisely why Barton wanted the man dead.

So it took some thinking. Barton's project did. Well, he had plenty of time for it. But time continued to pass, and no notably good ideas came to mind," even when he'd fought his body back to its normal strength and alertness, and maybe a little better. By Barton's best guess, J^'d passed his forty-second birthday sometime during the hospitalized period when he didn't know one day from another and couldn't care, so he didn't really expect Olympic-grade athletic prowess from himself. Bu< he was determined to get into reasonably good shape, and he did.

388.

The morning he completed a five-kilo run without drop- ping into a walk or getting a disabling stitch in his side, he decided it was time to talk in council. He was panting when he made that decision; his lungs felt like fire and his legs ached, but still he felt good. Because now his body would do what he told it to.

At the end of lunch, all having eaten together, he sprung it. "I'm calling council. Maybe you've wondered why I never said anything about ap Fenn's killing Ship Thirty-four. I've wondered why you didn't, either, but it's good you didn't. I wasn't ready; now I am. Not that any- body else is stuck with what / want"

"I had told them immediately," Limila said, "that you want the man's death. No one disagrees, to any significant extent. But all consented that the matter lie until you yourself propose it for discussion. Which you have now done."

"Everybody two jumps ahead of me, huh?" The idea rated a smile; he gave it. "Well, I don't have any real plan yet. All I've figured out is what would do the job, that I can't do." He told them, and saw agreement all around. "I think we need to know how everybody feels, before trying to plan."

Gripping hands, Myra and Cheng looked at each other;

then she spoke. "You know we're pretty much against

violence, Cheng and I; that's*one thing that attracted us to each other. We've had weapons training, though; we're

death on targets." Her mouth made a twist, then straight- ened. "But I liked Chin-she was as sweet as she was

smart and pretty. Killing her was an abomination! So I

think I could pull trigger on ap Fenn." She sighed. "But

ahead of time, I can't be sure. I guess that's not good

enough."

"It's fine," said Barton, "long as I know. You're willing

to help other ways, though?" She nodded; so did Cheng.

"Then well just plan things so that pulling triggers isn't

part of your jobs."

Limila started to say something; bis pointing finger