'Hello?' a voice filtered down from the stairs above me.
I went up a flight, onto a landing where shutters had been opened to let the daylight stream in.
Tm sorry to intrude/ I said.
'Gregor? Gregor Eisenhorn?' Doctor Berschilde of Ravello took a step towards me, registering sleepy astonishment.
She was still a very fine figure of a woman.
I think she was about to hug me, or plant a kiss on my cheek, but she halted and her face darkened.
'This isn't social, is it?' she said.
I went back to the speeder and flew it round to the private walled courtyard behind her residence where it was screened from view. The doctor's old manservant, Phabes, had opened the ground floor sundoors, and stood ready with a gurney for Medea. Eleena, Aemos and I followed them inside. I left the pilot, still in his will-induced fugue state, tied up in the flier.
Crezia Berschilde had put on a surgical apron by then, and met us in the ground floor hall. She said little as she examined Medea and checked her vitals.
'Take her through/ she told her man, then looked at me. 'Anybody else injured?'
'No/ I said. 'How is Medea?'
'Dying/ she said. All humour had gone from her voice. She was angry and I didn't blame her. 'I'll do what I can/
Tm grateful, Crezia. I'm sorry I've troubled you with this/
'She ought to go to the town infirmary!' she snapped.
'Can we avoid that?'
'Can we make this unofficial, you mean? Damn you, Eisenhorn. I don't need this!'
'I know you don't/
She pursed her lips. 'I'll do what I can/ she repeated. 'Go through into the drawing room. I'll have Phabes bring some refreshment/
She turned on her heel and disappeared into the house after Medea.
'So/ said Aemos quietly, 'who is this again?'
* * *
Doctor Crezia Berschilde was one of the finest anatomists on the planet. Her treatises and monographs were widely published throughout the Helican sub-sector. After years of practice in Dorsay and, for a period, off-world on Messina, she had taken up the post of Professor of Anatomy here at Ravello.
And, a long time ago, I had nearly married her.
One hundred and forty-five years earlier, in 241 to be exact, I had lost my left hand during a firefight on Sameter. The details of the case are unimportant, and besides, they are recorded elsewhere. I was fitted with a prosthetic, but I hated it and never used it. After two years, during a stay on Messina, I had surgeons equip me with a fully functioning graft.
Crezia had been the chief surgeon during that procedure. Becoming involved with a woman who has just sewn a vat-grown clone hand onto your wrist is hardly a way to meet a wife, I realise.