A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [48]
And noticed that they had formed that circle around him again. Were they having second thoughts now about letting him go? Surely, that was true of Ma’alor. It was evident in his face, in the way he held the knife.
But before the debate could be renewed, Dan’nor’s father came forward and embraced him. Then, his arm still wrapped around Dan’nor’s shoulders, he escorted him between Ma’alor and another man. Through the circle-to freedom.
No one moved to stop them. When they reached the door, the elder Tir’dainia opened it.
“Go now,” he said. “We’ll talk later.”
Dan’nor didn’t have to be told twice.
“You should have seen it,” said Marcroft, pushing some pasta around on his plate. “The poor bastard stood there for almost an hour, holding these damned weights at arm’s length. Can you imagine? I can’t even do that with my hands empty.”
Vanderventer grunted, looked about the lounge. He had an urge to get up, to run, to burn off some energy. But that was crazy, wasn’t it? He’d been dragging his rear end after that last shift, and the meal he’d just finished-big even by his standards-should have settled him into a nice, mellow lethargy.
But it hadn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact. Maybe the food processing unit had taken some liberties with his Peking Duck recipe. After all, it was programmed to make substitutions when the requested ingredients weren’t in its repertoire-and there was no telling how some of those ingredients might affect a given individual.
“Damn it, Hans, you’re not even listening to me.” Marcroft tilted his head to catch Vanderventer’s eye. “Are you?”
“What can I say?” the big Dutchman returned, finally picking up the thread of the conversation. “You’re just not a Klingon.”
“Oh,” said his companion. “I see. Thanks for telling me. Now I know why I’m not partial to raw meat.” He shook his head, made a tsk-tsking sound. “I wasn’t looking for an explanation. I was just expressing my admiration.”
Vanderventer grunted again. But he couldn’t seem to make his body want to stay put. He felt as if each and every one of his atoms were vibrating, trying to burst free.
“Sorry,” be said. “It’s just that I feel so… so jumpy. Must have been something wrong with that duck I ate.”
Marcroft leaned a little closer and peered at his friend. “Come to think of it,” he said, “you do look a little flushed.” He cracked a tentative smile. “You didn’t by any chance sneak a little Maratekkan brandy into that recipe, did you?”
Vanderventer frowned. “No, of course not. I…”
Suddenly, his feeling of anxiety eased. It was gone-without a trace. And in its wake, he felt the lazy contentedness he’d expected after a big meal.
“You what?”
“Nothing,” said Vanderventer. He sounded surprised, even to himself. “I mean, I feel better all of a sudden. For a while there, I was really zipping along-but now I’m okay again.”
Marcroft’s expression of concern hadn’t quite disappeared. “You sure? You still look a little funny. Funnier than usual, that is.”
The Dutchman took stock of himself, shrugged. “No, I’m fine.” He shivered a little. “Boy, if that wasn’t the weirdest sensation I’ve ever…”
The fork dropped from his hand, clattered on the table.
“Don’t go losing your silverware over it,” said Marcroft.
Vanderventer tried to pick up the fork, to replace it on his tray. But he couldn’t. His fingers seemed thick and unwieldy. As if they’d forgotten what they were supposed to do.
He looked up at his companion, attempted to control the panic that was rearing up in his gut. The weirdness wasn’t over-it had undergone only a change. “Something’s wrong with me, Mick. Something’s definitely wrong.”
Marcroft returned the look as Vanderventer flexed his fingers-first those of his right hand, then those of his left. “What now?” he asked.
“My fingers,” said Vanderventer, swallowing. “They feel stiff. I can’t get them to move.”
“Hey,” said Marcroft, “maybe they’re just tired. You wore them out with all that spaghetti-twirling.”
“No,”