Linzete's breath came out in a sharp hiss.
Lane shrugged and remembered the hiss of an annoyed cat.
Sound in the air caused both of them to look up. A small ship was circling the open spot, and it landed not far from Cliff. Clad in spotless white—spotless and seamless white—from toe to fingertip, and an inverted bowl of clear glass or plastic, the catman emerged from his open craft and came forward. On his back was a small tank and valves for air, obviously.
Cliff puzzled for only a moment. The white-clad one lifted a square case from the plane and, coming forward boldly, snapped down a portable set of legs and opened the door in front of Cliff.
From the cabinet he took slides of glass. He took Cliff's hand between his gloved fingers and pressed the human's fingers to the slide. He caught the human's breath on another slide. He made a convulsive motion with his face, and Cliff smiled and coughed on another slide. From the cabinet he took a scalpel and with a deft motion—and before Cliff could act—the doctor took a neat slice out of the small finger of Cliff's left hand. He doused the cut immediately; the substance removed the pain, at any rate.
He took a sample of Cliff's blood, scraped the skin of Cliff's forearm, and clipped off eight or nine of Cliff's crisp black hairs.