skirt the place and walk on toward the ship.

But he was near collapse. When he heard human voices he could only yell incoherently once or twice, sob, and pass out.

Dimly through succeeding days Chet was aware of the ship's sickbay, of the enlisted attendants, the hovering doctor, the silent commander. Later he realized he'd been kept under opiates so his body could recover while his mind rested. At the time, he felt only the dimness.

It wore off abruptly. He was in a civilized cot, stretching luxuriously, aware of warmth and comfort and a cheerful voice that seemed familiar.

He opened his eyes. A fat young corpsman had been watching.

"How do you feel, sir?" the boy said. "Ready for coffee?"

"Sure," Chet answered. And grinned lazily as he sat up to sip the proffered cup. "You've taken good care of me."

"Used to be a barber in civilian life," the boy said smugly. And Chet found with an exploratory hand that he'd been shaven and shorn, bathed, bandaged where necessary—even, he saw, clad in a pair of fancy red broadcloth pajamas.

"You've got me cleaned up, all right," he said. "Whose p.j.'s have I got on?"

"Dr. Pine's, sir. You'll see him in a couple of minutes—he and the Old Man been waiting to question you. There's a robe and slippers, if you want me to help you get up...."

"I'm not helpless," Chet said, boasting in his turn. He proved it by climbing—gingerly—out of the cot. The boy helped him into the robe, found the slippers, pushed the small room's one chair an inch closer to the open porthole, and left, closing the door behind him.

Vaguely Chet found he knew the two men who soon entered the room—they'd been there before. But this was his first fully conscious look at them. Commander Seymour, the C.O., looked surprisingly young for his job. He was young, Chet decided—not over thirty-five—and his short slight figure made him seem younger still.

He had few words. "You're looking fine, Barfield," he said, and sat on the edge of the cot, thin face impassive, gray eyes alert.

Dr. Pine—tall, balding, affable—was associated in Chet's mind with hypodermic needles, bitter medicines, restrictions. Today, the doctor gave him a firm and friendly handshake, but yesterday, Chet felt, that same hand had inflicted pain.

"Glad to see you looking so well," the doctor said, taking a stance against the wall by the porthole. He sounded sincere enough, but Chet, resuming his chair, wondered how much of the gladness was based on the doctor's pride in professional handiwork.

There was an awkward pause. Chet remembered to murmur polite replies to the men who were so obviously sizing him up. Then he asked, "When do you think I'll be ready for duty?"

His visitors exchanged a glance. "Later," Commander Seymour said. "Take it easy while you can, Barfield." He smiled unconvincingly at what must have been meant as a joke.

Talk again lapsed, and Chet became uncomfortable. "The corpsman said you wanted to ask me some things," he said. And added, "You've already questioned me, haven't you?"

"Only a little," Dr. Pine said, flexing his long fingers and looking down at them. "We—ah—we had to find out about your shipmates. Commander Seymour wanted to look for them, naturally...."

Naturally.... "Are we going to leave here now, sir?" Chet asked the commander.

"Not yet," he said. "Dr. Pine has a job to do."

"What's that, Doctor?"

"I'm going to study your Agvar friends, Mr. Barfield. Want to help?"

"Sure," Chet said. "There's nothing I'd rather do than bring you a few corpses to dissect."

"That—ah—that isn't the idea," Dr. Pine said, bending his fingers and rocking from toes to heels. "I—ah—I want to do a little anthropology—study them in the life...."

"Why?" Chet