Most local diseases can't touch us. But there are bacteria and fungi that thrive in moist, warm environments, including the human body. Nothing we can't adjust to, Mr. Findley—Turk—and nothing so dangerous or communicable that it could be carried back to Earth. But it's still not a good idea to arrive in the New World with a challenged immune system or, in Mr. Ginn's case, an open wound bandaged by an idiot."

"Can't you give him some kind of antibiotic?"

"I did. But the local microorganisms don't necessarily respond to standard pharmaceuticals. Don't misunderstand. He's not ill, and in all likelihood he won't become ill, but there's a certain unavoidable risk.

Are you a close friend of Mr. Ginn?"

"Not exactly. But like I said, he was trying to help me out when he got hurt."

"I'd prefer to keep him here a few days, under my observation. Is that all right?"

"Fine by me, but you might have to go some to convince Tomas. I'm not his keeper."

"Where are you headed, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Downcoast to the city."

"Any particular address? A number where I can reach you?"

"No, ma'am. I'm new here. But you can tell Tomas I'll look for him at the union hall when he makes it down to Port Magellan."

She seemed disappointed. "I see."

"Or maybe I can call you."

She turned and gazed at him for a long moment. Scrutinized him, actually. Turk started to feel a little awkward under that relentless stare. Then she said, "Okay. Let me give you a number."

She found a pencil in her kit bag and scribbled the number on the back of a Coast & Urban Coach Lines ticket stub.

* * * * *

"She was evaluating you," Tomas said.

"I know that."

"Good instincts, that woman."

"Yeah. That's the point," Turk said.

* * * * *

So Turk found a place to live in the Port and lived on his savings for a while and dropped by the Seaman's Union every now and then to look for Tomas. But Tomas never showed. Which, at first, didn't worry him much. Tomas could be anywhere. Tomas could have taken it into his head to cross the mountains, for all he knew. So Turk would have dinner or a drink and forget about his messmate; but when a month had passed he dug out the ticket stub and keyed the number scribbled on it.

What he got was an automated message that the number had been discontinued.