The Colors of Space

Bart heard, like an echo, the frightening words: Don't break any bones.

You won't pass an X-ray.

"It's all right, sir. When I get washed up--"

"That's an order," snapped the officer, "do you think, on this

pestilential unlucky planet, we can afford any more bad luck? Metals

fatigue, Karol burned so badly the medic thinks he may never use his

hand again, and now you and Ringg getting yourselves laid up and out of

action? The medic will help me with Ringg; that Mentorian girl can look

after you. Get moving!"

He hurried away, and Bart, his head beginning to hurt, walked slowly up

the ramp. His whole arm felt numb, and he supported it with his good

hand.

In the small infirmary, Karol lay groaning in a bunk, his arm bound in

bandages, his head moving from side to side. The Mentorian girl Meta

turned, charging a hypo. She looked pale and drawn. She went to Karol,

uncovering his other arm, and made the injection; almost immediately the

moaning stopped and Karol lay still. Meta sighed and drew a hand over

her brow, brushing away feathery wisps that escaped from the cap tied

over her hair.

"Bartol? You're hurt? Not more burns, I hope?"

She looks just like a fluffy little kitten, Bart thought

incongruously. Fatigue was beginning to blur his reactions.

"Only a few cuts," he said, in Universal, though Meta had spoken Lhari.

In his weariness and pain he was homesick for the sound of a familiar

word. "Ringg and I were both caught in the hailstorm. He's badly hurt."

"Sit down here."

Bart sat. Meta's hands were skillful and cool as she sponged the blood

away from his forehead and sprayed it with some pleasantly cold,

mint-smelling antiseptic. Bart leaned back, tireder than he knew,

half-closing his eyes.

"That hail must have been enormous; we heard it through the hull.

Whatever possessed you to go out into it?"

"It wasn't hailing when we left," Bart said wearily. "The sun was as

nice and green as it could be." He bit the words off, realizing he had

made a slip, but the girl seemed not to hear, fastening a strip of

plastic over a cut. She picked up his wrist. Bart flinched in spite of

himself, and Meta nodded. "I was afraid of that; it may be broken.

Better let me X-ray it."

"No!" Bart said harshly. "It's all right, I just twisted it. Nothing's

broken. Just strap it up."