He held up the stained pieces of uniform. Moya had kept his wits about him.
"A combination of weather, soil, et cetera," the medic said. "Completely innocuous."
"About the toxin," I said. "Given time, could you work up an antivenin?"
"Probably. But I'd need plenty. Both time and toxin." He looked at me. "Oh, I see what you're getting at." He became professionally parochial.
"In other words—" I said.
He snapped his fingers.
"You know how it hit you."
The confusion persisted, so I allowed the medic to use a pressure hypo.
Hours later, I felt better—physically.
On the vid screen, the magnified surface of the insular mass seemed almost to beckon. Sireni, I thought.