Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [73]
“Why don’t you?” Lahtehoja prompted him.
“Like I said. Because if I make a mistake, I could drive him down deeper into the pit. Deep enough so that he might never come out. I’m not prepared to take that responsibility.”
“Suppose I change my mind and order you to try?”
The chief medical officer stiffened slightly. “Then I would respectfully relinquish my post and report to the brig. I assure you that in that event every one of my subordinates will follow me, one by one.”
“Take it easy, Ben,” she soothed him. “I had to ask. I have no intention of trying to countermand or supersede a medical decision. Damn! That means we’ll have to take him back to Earth for treatment without knowing his history. We’ll end up seeing his story on the tridee like everyone else.”
“If he ever recovers enough to tell his story,” the cautious physician reminded her.
“What about physical details?” vaan Leuderwolk prompted the other man. “Identification, clothing, indication of possible origin?”
“His garments were filthy.” Fastidious physician that he was, Holomusa’s expression wrinkled at the distasteful memory. “My inclination was to have them burned.” At the look of alarm that spread over the faces of the commander and the captain the physician hastened to reassure them. “Ai, don’t have a stroke in my presence! Rest assured that everything has been properly preserved for future examination. I can tell you that his garments disclosed nothing spectacular or specific, which was in itself telling. They were clothes such as anyone might wear around the house—or on a ship. Casual and domestic. No uniform. Nothing in his pockets or sealed secretively in the fabric of his clothing.
“He carried no identification. Nothing. I have been informed that the suit he was wearing when the Unop-Patha found him is a very old model. It was in bad shape, barely pressure-safe. Certainly would never have passed inspection on this ship, or on any private vessel that valued its certificate. It showed evidence of having been repaired, restored, and refitted more times than is legal. I spoke of burning our mystery man’s clothing. His space suit should have been burned before he stepped into it.”
“Yet it kept him alive,” vaan Leuderwolk pointed out. “On the inner moon.”
“In what circumstances?” Lahtehoja’s brain was running hot. “Did the colony have a scientific station there? Some kind of observation post, perhaps for weather watchers?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Commander.” Vaan Leuderwolk knew what his superior was thinking. His thoughts had rushed down the same path of possibilities—until some basic research had shot them down. “According to every available record on Treetrunk there was not recently and never was any kind of colonial outpost or base of any kind on either of the planet’s two moons. They’re too small and their orbits are too irregular to make them of much use in that regard, and like most relatively new, rapidly expanding colonies, this one had no resources to spare on scientific frivolities. Their standard-issue communications satellites did the same kind of work more easily and cheaper.” He paused briefly.
“Of course, whatever annihilated the population took the time and care to destroy anything that might have been capable of recording what was taking place at the time. Including all communications and monitoring satellites.”
Lahtehoja grunted. “So we don’t even know where this poor bastard is from.”
Holomusa shook his head sadly. “Not based on his appearance, his suit, or his clothes, no. We can’t even say if he’s from Treetrunk or some passing ship that subsequently vanished. And that’s all we have to go on.”
“Not quite,” the always calculating commander countered. “There’s the vessel the Unop-Patha found him in.” Badly as she wanted to speak to the survivor, it could wait. Turning to the Ronin’s captain, she issued the order for a change of orbit.
Starting at opposite ends, two teams of investigators would examine the