"You are Peter Duncan. Do you understand?" she asked. He blinked, and she took that for affirmation. "In fact," she continued, "you are now Hero Peter Duncan."
This didn't register right. Hero? They must have saved Porter's life, but they didn't realize how it happened. And now she was misconstruing his puzzled expression. "I am Dr. Martha Rice. Remember me?"
All Duncan could think of now was the hands. Loving hands. What was the right answer? If he answered wrong the hands would stop. He closed his eyes. Loving hands. He remembered his mission.
How could he have better arranged it? This was ideal. By feigning slow recovery he could—
The hands stopped. A finger peeled back an eyelid. "You are awake. Come to, mister!"
Duncan opened the other eye and stared at her and let his lips part. "Thuh!" he grunted.
It was night. Duncan was detached from the intravenous needle and tube, and a small compress bandage covered the throbbing vein where his blood had boiled out when the needle was withdrawn. He had decided to reveal enough recovery to take oral nourishment.
The wall chronometer, adjusted to the slightly longer Mars' day, read 2300, an hour before midnight. He was alone. It should have been quiet, but several times heavy footsteps had passed down the hall near his tiny room. The sick bay was attached to the women's quarters.
Distinctly he heard an outside door open and the clump of safety boots passed his room. Slipping off the high bed he opened his door and looked into the hall. It was a man. Even in the dim light there was no mistaking the broad physique.