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doing.
    Panting, Clary stood over his unconscious form. She hoped she hadn’t hit him too hard. A blow to the vocal cords was dangerous, and could easily kill. But it was his own fault, for not realizing that a weak-looking girl in the Dyasthala could not possibly have been weak, or she would never have survived her teens.
    She had no idea which way to go now she was in the crew’s area of the ship. She could see only more corridors. The ship was riddled with them, like a piece of old and worm-infested wood. Things were rather more luxurious here, but to a Dyasthala thief gradations like that were of small importance. At random she decided which way to go, and broke into a stumbling run.
    By a chance which later she looked back on as a small miracle, the first crewman she encountered since the misguided man who had tried to slam the barrier in her face was the only officer she had seen before except the captain. Catching sight of him fifty paces distant down a corridor that she crossed, she shouted at him and he turned. He recognized her at once. After a glance behind him, seeming nervous, he began to walk towards her.
    “What is it?” he said. “And what are you doing in this part of the ship, anyway?”
    “Have you got a doctor in this—this flying mantrap?” she flung at him.
    Balden blinked. Again he glanced behind him, as though hoping someone would come to his aid. He said, “Ah—yes, we do have doctors aboard.”
    “Then you’d better get one of them down to Kazan quick,” Clary said. “He’s sick in the head. That’s what’s been the trouble all along. What difference does it make whether his devil was real or not, if he thinks it was real? And”—her face twisted suddenly with remembered disgust—“he thinks it was real. By the wyrds, he thinks it was real!”

IX

    When the white-coated young doctor brought Kazan back to the boundary of the crew’s and workers’ quarters two ships’ days later, Clary was waiting for him. He seemed to be in a daze, but it could be seen at once that something had happened to change him. He walked as though he meant it, was the way Clary summed it up to herself, instead of going with a kind of indefinable reluctance.
    The doctor nodded to her. “You must be Clary,” he said. “Well, here he is. All yours.”
    “How is he?” Clary demanded. “What was wrong with him?”
    “Interesting case,” the doctor said with a trace of professional warmth. “I’m not absolutely sure what happened to him, of course. There hasn’t been very much time, but what I think is that this narrow escape from death he had sent him into a sort of fugue. The lack of affect was typical, and he had incomplete amnesia—rejection of unpleasant memories. I see this doesn’t mean very much to you, though. Get him to talk to you about it himself, then. He has all his memory back now, and it’s up to him to make his own kind of sense out of it. You’re his girl?”
    “Not that I’ve noticed,” Clary said.
    The doctor looked her up and down in a way that was not at all professional. A glint of humor showed in his eyes. He said, “He must have been in a worse way than I thought. Well, he’ll get another check before we hit Vashti, and I’ll have a word with the base doctor—show him my records. But he ought to be okay from now on.”
    He raised his hand and stepped back while the barrier was pushed into place again. Clary found herself thinking that he was rather nice.
    She turned away and found Kazan studying her as though seeing her for the first time. His eyes had come alive in his face now, as if his mind had been brought out from under a cloud. He said, “I feel a lot different. Thank you.”
    The moment she heard his voice she too had a feeling that this was a first meeting. Unaccountable embarrassment made her glance down at the floor; she saw herself make a childlike movement with one foot, as she might have dug her toe into the ground a long way away in the Dyasthala.