Copyright statement: This is an original work by the two authors. Any resemblance to any person, living, dead or fictional, is unintentional and coincidental. The writers retain all rights to this work, and the copyright may not be infringed.
Plague: 1/?
By Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Strike Commander Fong hurled a final pair of socks into his suitcase and turned back to the bureau, rummaging savagely through its contents. Across the room his valet glanced nervously at him, placing his well-polished civilian shoes beside the reclining chair. The young man didn't speak, but approached and tentatively reached past Fong to remove the razor case from the top of the bureau. Fong growled something and took the article, turning back to his suitcase.
"Please, sir..." Darrin's voice was meek but carried a note of genuine concern. "I can pack for you. I have your list." He paused, clearly unsure.
"Dammit, Dar. I'd rather do it myself. Get the hell out." Fong turned away, knowing he was being a beast. Darrin Jeffers was a likable young man, and it was probably only by blowing off to him that Fong had managed to survive since he had achieved the dubious honor of Strike Commander seven years ago. Darrin had been a kid then, on his first assignment, new to his work, anxious to please, and very nervous. He had matured since then into an efficient, reliable valet, and Fong wouldn't have traded him for anything, but he still found himself snapping at him occasionally. Dammit! Sometimes his valet was the only one it was safe to take his anger out on -- although he looked with contempt upon other Strike Commanders who abused their servants.
Darrin had retreated, looking unhappy and even more nervous. "Very sorry, sir." He went to the door.
"Dammit! Come back here, Dar." Fong felt a wash of guilt. "Sorry to yell at you. It's not your fault."
Darrin paused. "I know there's been trouble, sir. If you want to talk about it, I'll listen. That's sort of what I'm here for, you know."
Fong glowered at him. He knew he should talk out his problems. The doctor had told him so, and Darrin was the one person to whom he had aired private matters before and found they had gone no further. He knew he internalized his problems too much. That was why he had this damn ulcer.
Darrin sighed. "I already know some of it, sir. The men haven't talked of much else recently. I know about SpRinthvar being kidnapped and then being found in the hospital in Bronson's bed, and Bronson gone. I know you were pulled up before the review board, but they said you were cleared of any negligence."
"I was," Fong growled. "Dammit! I had every reason to think Sprinthvar had been kidnapped! That bloody Underground bitch had me running all over town at all hours of the day expecting to find a ransom note -- and all the time she was just trying to save Bronson's useless hide. Damn her, anyhow! I've never been so embarrassed in my life..." He stopped biting off the word and glancing quickly at his handsome, young valet.
Darrin merely looked interested and sympathetic. "I heard you were the one who caught on first, though, sir."
"Yeah, and a fat lot of good it did me! It was still much too late to help. This condemned ulcer of mine started to bleed, and I passed out. Woke up in the ICU of the hospital, and dammit! Sprinthvor's lying in the bed beside mine -- tubed up and bandaged. We still aren't sure exactly what happened. I figure she must've switched him in Radiology and sent Sprinthvar back up in the gurney, but hell, how did she even get in there? The door guards didn't even remember seeing her, and how did she get Bronson to the ambulance without being noticed? He was out cold."
"Undergrounders!" Darrin said, with a faint trace of admiration in his voice.
"Yeah. Sometimes I think I'm on the wrong side." Fong dropped into a chair and pushed thick, dark hair back from his forehead.
"Well, it's over, sir, and now you can put it out of your mind and enjoy your leave." He paused, his blue eyes searching Fong's face. "No, I guess not, huh? Something else is bothering you, isn't there, sir?"
Fong struck the arm of the chair savagely. "Dammit, Dar, I don't know what to do!"
"What is it, sir? Can't you tell me?"
Fong scowled down at his clenched hands. "It's my ulcer. The doctor told me when I was discharged that I'm going to have to find a better way of dealing with my problems. If I don't, I'm going to be dead before I'm fifty."
Darrin drew in a sharp breath. "What do you mean?"
"I mean this damn ulcer's going to kill me. I'm not cut out to be a Strike Commander." He stood up. "I could retire, but in such a case as mine where retirement isn't mandatory, my pension would be next to nothing. I checked up on it. Do you know what it'd be? I doubt I could survive. I'd have to go into some other line of work, but dammit! I've never done anything else, and besides, you know what the general population is like when it comes to hiring ex-trols! If there's two people after a job, one's an ex-trol and one an ex-garbage man, they'll pick the garbage man! The civilians don't like us, and who can blame 'em?"
Darrin was silent.
"It's a damned impasse!" Fong turned back to the suitcase and threw his dress shoes vindictively on top of his best shirt.
"I don't suppose surgery would --"
"I asked him that. Oh, it might help temporarily. They'd have to take out a big piece of my intestine, and in the long run it wouldn't do any good. I'd just develop another one. My problem is my job. I should have known this might happen, but at twenty-one no one can tell you anything."
"How could you have known, sir?"
"My mother warned me. I'm so much like my father it's scary. You've probably heard about Subcommander Fong Jin, who died heroically in the line of duty twenty years ago while subduing the locals on Rogarth for the Jilectans."
"I've heard of him, sir."
"That was my father. He died after the battle -- collapsed while rounding up the main dissidents for execution. His ulcer started to bleed for the fifth time --massive hemmorrhage. They couldn't save him." Fong sighed. "He was forty-six --five years older than I am now."
"Oh man!"
"Things like that are always covered up -- bad publicity for the new recruits. My mom was left behind with fourteen kids, and another one on the way."
"You have fourteen brothers and sisters, sir?"
"Yeah. I'm the oldest, and the only one stupid enough to join the Patrol."
"How did she manage?"
"Oh, the pensions for Patrol Subcommanders killed by their jobs are pretty good. The widows and orphans are taken care of. Mom's still alive, in fact, and my youngest brother is still at home. He's nineteen now, and really looks up to me. Wishes he could join the Patrol, but he's too short."
"Probably a good thing."
"I've told him that." Fong grinned sourly. "I don't think he believed me."
"He's only nineteen, huh? Any chance he'll ever reach the height requirement?"
"I don't think so. He didn't even reach my shoulder -- at least, he didn't when I last saw him six months ago." Fong sighed. "He better not grow anymore. When I see him next, I think I'll take him aside and give him a good, heart-to-heart talk."
"You're going to see your family during your leave, sir?"
"Yeah -- after I go fishing. All I want right now is to lie beside Lake Dunnum and fish."
"You're going to Bellian, huh?"
"Yeah. I need peace and quiet. Maybe if I have some time to myself I'll be able to sort things out." Fong sighed and stood up. "Thanks for listening Dar. I do feel better just talking about it. Guess that damn doctor's right after all. I need to get it out -- not internalize so much."
"I'm always willing to be your sounding board, sir." The young man grinned deprecatingly. "I like my post here, and I don't want to be transferred, so I'm helping myself, too, you see."
Fong grinned back. "Just don't ever get any ideas about leaving the valet corps for the ranks."
Darrin's face fell. "I tried already, sir."
"You tried!"
"Yes. I was rejected. I was seven centimeters too short and the wrong mental makeup."
"Lucky for you."
"Maybe so, although I didn't think so at the time."
"Wrong mental makeup, huh? I've never heard that one before. Did they say what was wrong with you?"
Darrin shook his head. "No, but I got the impression Lord Pochithvar -- the Jil who probed me -- didn't like me very much."
"None of `em like Terrans much. The one who probed me didn't think much of me, either."
"No, but this one kind of cursed in the Jil language and shoved me aside. Scared me pretty bad. I thought he was going to hit me at first."
"When was this?"
"Ten years ago now." Darrin sighed. "I was sixteen. Figured I might grow some more and try again, but I never did. Haven't grown a bit since."
"Double lucky. Most kids do. Oh well, whatever mental makeup you had that he didn't like doesn't seem to matter to other Terrans." Fong stood up. "You're a great valet. I feel a helluva lot better."
Darrin smiled. "Glad I could be of help. I think you should hurry some, sir. Your ship departs in forty minutes." The valet closed the bag for him and hefted it. Fong swung the bundle of camping gear to one shoulder.
"I can get that, sir."
"No thanks. I'll handle it."
Together they proceeded out of his stateroom, down the lift and onto the landing field. The air taxi was there, waiting to take him to the Tren spaceport. Darrin offered to accompany him and assist with the luggage, but Fong waved him away.
"Go ahead, Dar. You're probably dying to take off on your own leave. Enjoy yourself and I'll see you in ninety days."
"Thank you, sir." Darrin held the door for him and bowed from the waist as he climbed in. Fong waved to him as the taxi lifted off, heading for the spaceport.
He leaned back in the seat as the taxi dived into the stream of traffic proceeding away from the Patrol base. Almost he wished he had asked Darrin to come with him. Alone with his thoughts, all the desolation swept upon him again. He was a condemned man -- condemned, like his father, to an early death. Blast it! It wasn't fair! He'd worked hard to get where he was, and now he must either throw it all away or face a premature demise.
Resolutely he tried to put it out of his mind. He had three months of relaxation before him before he must go back to that hellish job. Three months ....
The Terran Confederation luxury passenger liner Mary Belle departed from the Tren spaceport on Revellus on schedule. Strike Commander Fong remained in his stateroom for the first hour after takeoff, leafing through the pamphlets and tourist manuals provided for first class passengers. There was a schedule of the ship's planned route among the other paraphernalia and he read it, noting that the Mary Belle was destined to make stops at the Jilectan worlds of Riskell (his birthplace), Corala and Shallock before entering Terran space. Even after reaching Terran space there would be several more stops to make before reaching Bellian. The ship's final destination was Terra, itself. Fong sighed. He had three months. Perhaps a visit to his species' home world would be nice. He'd always wanted to see the planet where Humanity was born ....
He was brought out of his musings by a voice over the intercom announcing that the dinner hour was approaching. He stood up, stretched, and reached for his suitcase. He would unpack, he decided, then dress for dinner. Perhaps there would be some interesting females in the lounge -- someone to take his mind off his problems.
The neckcloth gave him some trouble. He hadn't been on a leave for some time, and the last time he had taken his valet along with him. Young Darrin, whose hands and feet looked too big for the rest of him, was wonderfully adept at such things as tying neckcloths. Fong struggled with the thing for twenty minutes, trying to make it look right, surveying the result doubtfully in the mirror. Dammit! He should have brought Darrin along! He never could get the hang of these things!
Oh dammit! Let the stupid thing hang like that if it wanted to! He wasn't going to fool with it anymore! Fong picked up his dinner jacket and headed for the dining room, feeling depressed.
A woman was walking ahead of him: a tiny, slim figure clad in an evening dress. Deliberately he slowed his pace to get a better look. She didn't glance back; perhaps she hadn't heard him, but continued on down the passageway.
Nice, Fong thought. Little, but nice -- at least from the rear. Her gown dipped low in the back, exposing smooth, olive skin, her hips were softly rounded, and her hair lay in a fluffy cloud on her shoulders. She turned into the dining lounge, and Fong followed her, still taking in her form without embarrassment, since she apparently didn't realize he was there.
The lounge was filling up with people. The object of his admiration made her way over to the bar and sat down. Fong almost started after her, then paused, considering. Probably better to give her a moment alone, he decided. He, personally, had always hated to have a woman move right in the moment he sat down.
There were quite a few people, all of them dressed in formal evening attire and, from the style of clothing, most of them were probably citizens of Terra. A couple was seated at the table to his left: man and wife by the look of them. The woman's hair was piled into a twisted mass atop her head, and its auburn depths sparkled with green jewels. Her husband's neckcloth had obviously been tied by someone accustomed to such tasks. Two kids were seated at the table with them -- well not exactly kids. That girl was probably no more than fifteen, but very nicely built for her age. She looked at Fong under her lashes and smiled flirtatiously, patting her artistically arranged coppery curls. Her brother, probably one or two years older, threw a decidedly unfriendly glance at the Strike Commander.
Fong was amused. He went past the table, letting his eyes slide in the girl's direction again. No harm, he thought, in making her brother a bit overly protective, not with a girl like that for a sister. He approached the bar, seating himself a couple of stools away from the young lady he had followed to the lounge, and ordered a coke. His doctor had advised no alcohol and Fong intended to stick to the advice.
The girl didn't look at him, her attention apparently on a young couple who had approached the bar on her other side. They were arm in arm, and the man leaned forward to order drinks. The object of Fong's admiration said something softly to the young woman, who answered, smiling brightly.
"Just yesterday! This is my husband, Farley. I'm Mary Ann."
Another soft reply from the woman. Fong wished she'd turn her head so he could see her face.
The young couple settled on the bar stools, sipping their drinks, becoming absorbed in each other once again. Fong glanced at them wistfully. It would be nice, he thought, to be twenty and in love. There had been a girl once when he was that age. He frowned, remembering beautiful, enticing Lin Sing, whom he had loved, and whom he had thought loved him. She had left him for another man, and her excuse....
He frowned more darkly still. Lin Sing had resembled this young woman beside him, at least in shape and coloring. He still hadn't seen her face.
She turned her head to look at him, and he felt a sense of shock. She was beautiful! Lovely Asian features, wide set almond eyes, tiny, petite nose and full, softly curving mouth. He swallowed.
Lin Sing would be close to forty now, but this woman might well be her younger sister. The lovely features which he had never forgotten, leaped out at him, making his throat constrict with remembered pain and love.
The young lady smiled, lifting her drink to her lips. Fong managed to wrench his gaze from hers and motioned for the bartender. The man was beside him at once. "Yes sir?"
"A whiskey, please."
"Yes sir." The man departed, returning with a brimming glass. Fong picked it up and swallowed half of it in a gulp. Then, against his will, his eyes strayed back to the woman. She was still watching him, her expression puzzled. Her hand lightly patted the seat beside her.
Fong moved over, bringing his drink with him. He could smell her perfume. That, at least, was different from the stuff Lin Sing had used. It was an intoxicating fragrance: floral, he thought, but with a hint of spice.
"Hello." Her voice was soft and slightly husky -- low for a woman, and also unlike Lin Sing's. It gave him courage, and he produced a suitable smile.
"Hi. I'm Fong Lee."
"Mai Wing." Her eyes moved over his form appreciatively. "Chinese ancestry, I suppose?"
"Full blood through and through. You?"
"Almost." She smiled tinily. "Mom was half Hawaiian. I'm from Terra."
"Yeah?" Lin Sing had been from Terra. "From Hawaii?"
"Dad met mom on the big island. She was born there, and they went back again after they were married. I was born at the base of a volcano." She smiled again. "Dad always said the sparks must have settled on me in the cradle, I was such a fiery kid."
Lin Sing had been from China. Fong breathed a sigh of relief. "Can I buy you another drink?"
"I'd like that." She glanced at her half empty glass. "Something else, please. I didn't like this stuff."
"What was it?"
"Something called a Jumping Jackboar. It's awful. Tastes sort of like cough syrup."
Fong grinned. "It has 150 proof vodka in it. Here, let me see...how about a Mai Tai?"
"That would be nice."
He signaled the barkeep and ordered. Mai Wing watched him, her lovely face interested. "Where are you from, Lee? Wait a minute, I've go it. Riskell!"
"That's right. My accent give me away?"
She nodded, picking up the drink the bartender set before her. "I'm good at accents. Yours is diluted, though. I'd guess you've visited a lot of places in your life."
He nodded. Might as well get it out in the open, he decided, although being from Terra she might well throw her drink all over him once she knew. "I'm in the Viceregal Patrol."
Her eyes surveyed him solemnly. "What rank? Wait a minute...Fong. Not the Strike Commander?"
"Yeah." Fong was aware of the young couple on the other side of Mai Wing watching him and listening to the conversation. The young man said something to his wife and the two got up and moved to a vacant table. The expressions of distaste on their faces were plain to read. Fong squirmed.
Mai Wing shrugged. "It's easy to be a judge from outside the courtroom," she remarked.
"Yeah." He finished his drink. "You don't mind?"
Another careless shrug. "No."
He relaxed. "Would you like to have dinner with me, Mai Wing?"
"I'd like that very much."
"There's a vacant table over there. Are you hungry now?"
"Starving." She picked up her drink and together they moved over to the table.
Fong seated her and the waiter placed menus before them.
Fong glanced around. The lounge was gradually filling up with people, and he saw the ship's officers enter, resplendent in their white uniforms with gold braid, neckcloths neatly and expertly tied. A young lieutenant glanced across at Mai Wing and smiled, raising a hand. Fong felt a sharp twinge of jealousy. "Who's that?"
"Oh, Lieutenant Max Carter. I met him when I first boarded. Nice fellow."
'I'll bet,' Fong thought, but he picked up his menu, scanning it. It was written in English, which Fong spoke well. The entrees tonight were a choice between braised whitefish from Terra or sauteed marshhopper. Fong chose the whitefish and Mai Wing did the same. The steward placed a bottle of wine on their table, then paused, looking a little flustered.
"Uh...excuse me, sir, but I wonder if I could impose on you. We're in need of a translator."
"A translator?"
"Ehem ... yes ... the two gentlemen at table three ..." The steward nodded toward the table. Seated there appearing slightly uneasy, were two large men, staring blankly at the menus in their hands. One of them had his upside down.
"I ... uh ... noticed you speak English sir, and the two ... gentlemen are patrolmen. I feel, considering your background ... ehem ...."
Fong could understand that. This was a Confederation ship, carrying mostly Terran citizens. Some of them would, undoubtedly, speak Basic well enough to translate, but so many Confederation citizens were actively hostile to the mercenaries of the Jilectan Viceroy that the steward feared he would be rebuffed, or worse still, that the person might see the chance to get back at the Patrol and would purposely lead the unsuspecting Patrolmen astray.
"Sure, I'd be glad to help."
"Thank you, sir. I'll move them over to this table beside yours, then, to make things easier."
The men moved, still looking uneasy, and sat down, muttering their thanks to Fong. He gave them a reassuring grin. "Hi. What're your names? I'm Fong Lee, from the 'Orion'."
"The Strike Commander!" The nearer man started to stand up again.
"Sit down, dammit! We're off duty, remember? Yeah, the Strike Commander. Who are you?"
"Sublieutenant DeVille, sir! Theodore DeVille."
The other man grinned faintly. "Ease up, Ted," he advised, his words carrying the broad accent of a Shallockian native. "Fong's a decent guy. Thoroski's told me about him."
"Thoroski, huh?" Fong poured himself and Mai Wing a glass of wine. "You guys are from the 'Leviathan,' then?"
"Yessir." The Shallockian grinned. "I'm Maxwell. Lieutenant Marlin Maxwell."
Fong extended a hand across the space. Maxwell clasped it, and a moment later DeVille did the same. "Good to know you. Where are you going?"
"Liskell," Maxwell informed him. "You see, Ted an' me..." he grinned faintly. "well, you might say opportunity knocked and we was nearest the door."
Deville grinned too, apparently relaxing a bit. "We earned us a big bonus an' some extra leave, sir."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah." Another faint grin from Maxwell. "We pulled a Jil's chestnuts outta the fire for him."
"Oh. Well...." Fong glanced up as the steward approached again. "Here's our friend. What would you guys like? The entrees are sauteed marshhopper and braised whitefish."
"I'll have the marshhopper," Maxwell told him. "You, Ted?"
"Uh...I'll give the whitefish a try."
Fong translated for them, then added on a request for a bottle of moonwine. The steward thanked him and moved away with the orders.
Lieutenant Maxwell glanced across at Mai Wing. "Whatta pretty li'l gal," he remarked sideways to Fong.
"Thank you," Mai Wing said in Basic. She smiled charmingly at the Lieutenant. "You're very nice looking, too."
Fong stared in surprise. Her Basic, although carrying the distinctive Terran accent, was flawless -- the tones almost like those of a Jilectan.
Maxwell went pink and stood up. "Uh ... my apologies, Miss ... I ... didn't realize ...."
"I know." Her smile was charming and gracious. "I was educated at Honolulu State. They really pushed the Basic."
"You sound like a Jil," the Sublieutenant remarked.
"I do?"
"Well, sort of." He, too went slightly pink. "But I like the way you talk better." He glanced at Fong and one eye fluttered in a wink.
Maxwell interposed. "I'm sure we ain't anywhere near so interestin' as the lady, Strike Commander, so we'll mind our own business now. Thanks for your help."
"Don't mention it." Fong smiled across the table at Mai Wing. The waiter placed appetizers before them, some sort of pinkish meat, smothered in reddish sauce. Mai Wing made a soft sound of appreciation and picked up the miniature fork attached to the dish.
"Mm! Crab cocktail! My favorite!"
"Crab, huh?" He poked experimentally at the meat. "Terran food?"
"Yes. Crabs are harvested in the Terran oceans -- a good sized crustacean. Try it."
Fong did. The meat was fork tender and held a faintly sweet, delicious flavor. The sauce set it off to perfection. "Mm! Yeah, I like it!"
Mai Wing smiled. "Shrimp cocktail is good, too -- another Terran crustacean. I think Terra produces the best shellfish in the Sector."
Fong hated to admit that he wasn't sure what a shellfish was. "This is the best I've ever tasted!"
She dimpled slightly. "What kind of shellfish does Riskell produce, Lee?"
"Uh ..."
Her smile dissolved into soft laughter. "Don't be ashamed if you don't know. It's a big galaxy. I have no inkling of the delicacies of a Riskellian table. I'm sure you could teach me a thing or two about that."
He grinned shamefacedly. "What's a shellfish?"
"It's a sea creature which grows in a shell, or has a shell encasing it for protection. We have lots of them on Earth, not only crabs and shrimp but lobster, clams, oysters, mussels and scallops, plus lots of less well known types. Not all of 'em are edible." She finished her crab cocktail and set the fork down. "So, tell me about the Viceregal Patrol, Lee."
Fong finished his own appetizer and sipped from his wine glass. "Let's talk about something more cheerful."
"Okay. How about your family. You have sisters and brothers?"
"Fourteen of 'em."
"Ooh! Nice big family. I'll bet you're the oldest."
"Yeah. How did you know?"
"You act like an eldest. I'm an eldest, too."
"You have family, too?"
"Four sisters and a brother. He's the youngest, born last year. Mom's spoiling
him to death."
"Moms are like that. My youngest brother is nineteen."
"Really?" Her lovely eyes surveyed him thoughtfully. "I hope you'll pardon me for saying so, but you look very young to be a Strike Commander."
Fong had always prided himself on his youthful appearance and now he felt a flush of pleasure. "I'm older than I look. I'm forty-one"
"You look thirty, but still, you must have been quite young when you were promoted."
"Thirty-four."
She nodded, sipping the wine. "Very young."
"Linley was younger and so was Foxe."
She laughed softly. "And look how they both turned out. Linley went crazy and ran off to the Terran Underground and Foxe was killed by Alan Westover."
"Well, there's still Thoroski. He was thirty-three."
"So you're number two." She finished her wine and held out her glass for more.
Fong filled it, feeling a flush of pleasure. Mai Wing was, without doubt, the most charming and attractive woman he had ever met. Even Lin Sing could not have held a candle to her.
It was nearly 0100 ship's time before he parted from her to head for his quarters. After dinner they had danced for hours and then gone for a walk under the imitation night sky on the first class deck. The fake night wind had brushed his skin and Mai Wing's arm on his had sent chills through him. Love? He couldn't fall in love! He had enough problems of his own.
He lay on his back, staring up at the darkness, remembering the velvet contact of her fingers on his arm, the soft touch of her lips as she had kissed him at the door of her stateroom. The memory made his heart pound. He would see her again tomorrow, he thought, and the next day. It occurred to him then that he had never inquired as to her destination. Why, they docked on Corala tomorrow! Perhaps she would be disembarking then! Not likely, he told himself, but possible.
He had to know! Why, what if he never saw her again? He stood up, slipped on a robe, and went out of his stateroom and down the corridor toward Mai Wing's room. Without thinking, he knocked loudly.
The door opened almost instantly, revealing Mai Wing. She was clad in a flowing, silken robe and her dark hair lay over her shoulders. Her eyes surveyed him without surprise. "What is it, Lee?"
"Mai, where are you going?"
"What? Nowhere. To bed."
"No ..." He felt himself flushing. "I mean, what's your destination?"
"Oh. I'm going to Terra."
"Terra ... oh ..." He grinned a bit foolishly. " I... I just ..."
"Yes?"
"I just wanted to be sure you weren't getting off tomorrow."
She smiled. "No, I'm not."
"That's good. Well ...good night."
"Good night, Lee." She smiled sweetly and closed the door. Fong went back to his room and lay down on his bed, feeling a bit silly, but a lot better.
She was just a girl, he told himself. A pretty girl, but a Terran. Terran citizens, as a rule, hated the Patrol, looked upon them with contempt as traitors to their own kind. Mai Wing, uncondemning as she seemed, must harbor some of those feelings. And yet, she hadn't seemed to. Perhaps the fact that he was a Patrolman leant a certain perverse attractiveness to the relationship.
He frowned darkly at the thought, and again the features of Lin Sing hovered in the background. Was it possible? There was certainly a resemblance there.
Tomorrow he would ask her about her family, and learn more about her. He slept eventually.
**********
tbc
