“Nonsense. He’s used to it. I visit him frequently at night.”
“Sure—but you’re the boss.”
“Well—in a sense you are too. At least in the veterinary end of this business.” Alexander swung sharply to the left and climbed a short flight of stairs that led to the nearest house. Lights flared on the deep porch, and the old-fashioned iris door dilated to frame the black silhouette of a stocky, broad-shouldered man.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “I was expecting you. That the new vet with you?”
“Your pipeline’s still working, I see,” Alexander said. “Yes, this is Dr. Kennon—Evald Blalok—I wanted you two to meet.”
Kennon liked the gray middle-aged man. He looked honest and competent, a solid quiet man with a craggy face and the deep-set eyes of a Mystic. His skin had the typical thickness and pore prominence of the dwellers on that foggy world from which he came. But unlike the natives of Myst, his skin was burned a dark brown by Kardon’s sun. He seemed out of place on this tropic world, but Kennon reflected wryly that there was probably more than one misplaced human here, himself included.
“I’ve been going over Station Fourteen’s records with Jordan,” Blalok said as he ushered them into the house. A tall black-haired man rose as they entered.
“Skip the formality, Jordan. Sit down,” Alexander said, “and meet Dr. Kennon—Steve Jordan—Jordan runs the Lani Division.”
Kennon nodded acknowledgment as Alexander continued, “What’s this trouble at Fourteen?”
“I don’t know. We’ve got an epizootic of something. Another youngster died this morning, and there’s three more that look pretty bad, jaundice, no appetite, complaining of muscular pains. Same symptoms as took the others. The one this morning makes the fourth this month, and we’re only half through it.”