“Of course,” Doctor Kothu said nervously. He turned hastily toward Martino. “Sir, this is Colonel Azarin. He has come to see about your condition.”

Azarin forced himself to go over to the bed. His face crinkled into its smile. “How do you do?” he said in English, holding out his hand.

The thing in the bed reached out its good hand. “I’m feeling better, thank you,” it said neutrally. “How do you do?” Its hand, at least, was human. Azarin gripped it warmly.

“I am well, thank you. Would you like to talk? Doctor Kothu, you will bring me a chair, please. I will sit here, and we will talk.” He waited for Kothu to place the chair. “Thank you. You will go now. I will call you when I wish to leave.”

“Of course, Colonel. Good afternoon, sir,” Kothu said to the thing in the bed, and left.

“Now, Doctor of Science Martino, we will talk,” Azarin said pleasantly, settling himself in his chair. “I have been waiting for you to recover. I hope I am not inconveniencing you, sir, but you understand there are things that have waited — records to be completed, forms to fill in, and the like.” He shook his head. “Paperwork, sir. Always paperwork.”

“Of course,” Martino said. Azarin had difficulty fitting the perfectly normal voice to the ugly face. “I suppose our people have been annoying your people to get me back, and that always means a great deal of writing back and forth, doesn’t it?”

Here is a clever one, Azarin thought. Within the first minute, he was trying to find out if his people were pressing hard. Well, they were, God knew they were, if Novoya Moskva’s tone of voice meant anything.

“There is always paperwork,” he said, smiling. “You understand, I am responsible for this sector, and my people wish reports.” So, now you may guess as much as you wish. “Are you comfortable? I hope everything is as it should be. You understand that as colonel in command of this sector, I ordered that you be given the best of all medical attention.”

“Quite comfortable, thank you.”

“I am sure that you, as a Doctor of Science, must be even more impressed with the work than I, as a simple soldier.”

“My specialty is electronics, Colonel, not servomechanics.”

Ah. So now we are even.

Less than even, Azarin thought angrily, for Martino had yet to give him any sign of being helpful. It did not matter, after all, how much Martino did not find out.

These first talks were seldom very productive in themselves. But they set the tone of everything that followed. It was now that Azarin had to decide what tactics to use against this man. It was now that the lines would be drawn, and Azarin measured against Martino.

But how could anyone see what this man thought when his face was the face of a metal beast — a carved thing, unmoving, with no sign of anything? No anger, no fear, no indecision — no weakness!

Azarin scowled. Still, in the end, he would win. He would rip behind that mask, and secrets would come spilling out.

If there is time, he reminded himself. Six weeks, now. Six weeks. How far would the Allieds stretch their patience? How far would the Allieds let Novoya Moskva stretch theirs?

He almost glared at the man. It was his fault this incredible affair had ever taken place. “Tell me, Doctor Martino,” he said, “don’t you wonder why you are here, in one of our hospitals?”

“I assume you got the jump on our rescue teams.”

It was becoming clear to Azarin that this Martino intended to leave him no openings. “Yes,” he smiled, “but would you not expect your Allied government to take better safety precautions? Should they not have had teams close by?”

“I’m afraid I-never thought about it very much.”

So. The man refused to tell him whether the K-Eighty-Eight was normally considered an explosion hazard or not.

“And what have you thought about, Doctor of Science?”

The figure in the bed shrugged. “Nothing much. I’m waiting to get out of here. It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it? I don’t imagine you’ll be able to keep me very long.”

Now the thing was deliberately trying to get him angry. Azarin did not like being reminded of the wasted weeks. “My dear Doctor of Science, you are free to go almost as soon as you wish.”

“Yes — exactly. Almost.”

So. The thing understood the situation perfectly, and would not yield — no more than its face could break out into fearful sweat.

Azarin realized his own palms were damp.

Abruptly, Azarin stood up. There was no good in pursuing this further. The lines were clearly drawn, the purpose of the talk was accomplished, nothing more could be done, and it was becoming more than he could stand to remain any longer with this monster. “I must go. We will talk again.” Azarin bowed. “Good afternoon, Doctor of Science Martino.”

“Good afternoon, Colonel Azarin.”

Azarin pushed the chair back against the wall and strode out. “I am finished for today,” he growled to the waiting Doctor Kothu, and went back to his office, where he sat drinking tea and frowning at the telephone.

7

Doctor Kothu came in, examined him, and left. Martino lay back in his bed, thinking.

Azarin was going to be bad, he thought, if he was given the chance to build up his temper over any period of time. He wondered how much longer the ANG would take to get him out of this.

But Martino’s greatest preoccupation, at the moment, was the K-Eighty-Eight. He had already decided what unlikely combination of factors had produced the explosion. Now, as he had been doing for the past several hours, he worked toward a new means of absorbing the terrific heat wastage that the K-Eighty-Eight developed.

He found his thoughts drifting away from it and toward what had happened to him. He raised his new arm and looked at it in fascination before he forced himself off the subject. He flung the arm down on the bed beside him, out of his field of vision, and felt the shock against the mattress.

How long am I going to stay in this place? he thought. Kothu had told him he could be getting out of bed soon. How much good is that going to do me if they keep me on this side of the line indefinitely?

He wondered how much the Soviets knew about the K-Eighty-Eight. Probably just enough so they’d do their best to keep him and pump it out of him. If they hadn’t known anything, they’d never have come after him. If they knew enough to use, again, they wouldn’t have bothered.

He wondered how far the Soviets would go before they were ready to give up. You heard all kinds of stories. Probably the same stories the Soviets heard about the ANG.

He was frightened, he suddenly realized. Frightened by what had happened to him, by what Kothu had done to save him, by the thought of having the Soviets somehow get the K-Eighty-Eight out of him, by the sudden feeling of complete helplessness that came over him.

He wondered if he might be a coward. It was something he had not considered since the age when he learned the difference between physical bravery and courage. The possibility that he might do something irrational out of simple fear was new to him.

He lay in the bed, searching his mind for evidence, pro or con.