Shaking with anxiety now, Murdoch executed the small movements of his right hand that forced the tiny instrument out from between his thumb and forefinger. He felt a panicky desire to hurry, and forced himself to move slowly. He transferred the tiny syringe to his left hand, which was nearer Waverill. Waverill was about to pluck the blossom. Murdoch moved his right hand forward, trying—in case the aliens could see, though he had his body in the way—to make the move casual. He flicked a finger near the bee.
The bee leaped into the air, its buzz high-pitched and loud. Waverill tensed.
Murdoch cried, "Look out, sir!" and grabbed at Waverill's hand. He jabbed the miniature syringe into the fleshy part of the hand, at the outside, just below the wrist.
"Damn you!" Waverill bellowed, slapping at his right hand with his left. He jerked away from Murdoch.
"Here, sir! Let me help you!"
"Get away from me, you clumsy fool!"
"Please, sir. Let me get the stinger out. You'll squeeze more poison into your skin."
Waverill faced him, a hand raised as if to strike. Then he lowered it. "All right, damn you; and be careful about it."
Shakily, Murdoch took Waverill's hand. The syringe, dangling from the skin, held a trace of red in its minute plastic bulb. Murdoch gasped for breath and fought to make his fingers behave. He got hold of the syringe and drew it out. Pretending to drop it, he hid it in the junction of the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. He kept his body between them and the building, and tried to make his actions convincing. "There. It's out, sir."
Waverill was still cursing in a low voice. Presently he stopped, but his face was still hard with anger. "Take me inside."