n the edge of
the bed.

"Here," said the doctor, teasingly, "what kind of nurse are you, mussing
up your patient's bed?"

She pouted prettily. "He's _my_ patient." Then looking down at Tee with
a smile, "You'll be up and around in no time now."

"_Time!_" cried Tee, raising up. "_What's the date? I've got to know!_"

"You've been delirious for two weeks," answered the doctor. "Another two
weeks of convalescence and you ought to be as good as new."

"But two weeks, I can't--"

"Can't leave before then anyway," replied the doctor calmly. "I knew
you'd want your ship repaired so I had it hauled to the port. Won't be
ready for two more weeks. So you might as well relax."

Tee bit his lip, and clenched his fists to keep from trembling. It was a
moment before he could trust himself to speak without a quaver in his
voice. "Nothing else I can do, I guess. Thanks, anyway. And by the way,
there's enough credits in the ship's safe to pay for the repairs, I'm
sure."

"I think we should start the patient walking tomorrow," said Lara, in a
mock-professional voice. She punched the ends of Tee's pillow. "Now
you'd better get some sleep. You're still very weak, you know."

* * * * *

The days that followed were like an idyll for Tee. With Lara he wandered
through the parklike wooded groves. They sat near shaded pools and ate
wild berries while she told him stories of the founding of Elysia. They
held hands and ran exuberantly across the grassy meadows, and waded like
children in the clear brooks.

A thousand times, a word, an endearing term, sprang to his lips, and
each time the fear clamped his tongue in a vise of steel. A thousand
times he wanted to touch her, feel the silkiness of her hair, the warmth
of her lips, but each time the fear and uncertainty stood between them
like twin specters of doom, pointing and saying, "Fool! Why torture
yourself?"

In the daytime when Lara was with him it wasn't so bad, but at night the
fear and uncertainty crowded to the fore and blanked out everything
else. It was then he prayed for the courage to kill himself, and
despised the weakness that made him draw back from the thought. If only
he could stop thinking. Make his mind a blank. But that was death, and
death was what he feared. How long ago was it when he'd first realized
that hope was an illusion, a false god that smiled and lied, and held
out vain promises only to prolong the torture?

Then one