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visitors.
    Adopting the blandly neutral expression of a seasoned poker player, Usaak directed his dark gaze toward the younger of the two doctors. “Mak-Koy, I am gratified to see that you have survived your injuries.”
    â€œBelieve me, sir, I’m mighty pleased about it myself,” McCoy said.
    â€œThe lightningbeast’s mate gravely wounded our brother hunter Efeer,” Keer said. “What sorcery is at work here? How can a small, weak Earthman recover from injuries that may yet claim the life of one of our mightiest hunters and warriors?”
    â€œWe used no sorcery, Subteer Usaak,” Wieland said. “What you see is the healing power of medicine.” He touched the medikit on his hip for emphasis.
    â€œ Meh-di-sihn ,” Usaak said haltingly, the word sounding unwieldy in his mouth.
    McCoy knew that the landing party’s universal translators worked accurately only when equivalent words or ideas existed on both sides of any given linguistic divide. That fact brought him to an astonishing realization: This culture had never produced anything that even remotely resembled the healing arts.
    â€œ Meh-di-sihn ,” repeated Usaak’s lieutenant. “Is this what you call this sorcery of yours that raises the dead?”
    â€œI assure you, we have no such power,” Wieland said. He gestured toward McCoy. “However gravely injured this man may have seemed two days ago, he never crossed over into death. If he had, he wouldn’t be standing before you now.”
    â€œYet you wield the power of gods,” Usaak said. “One of our hunting scouts has borne witness to this personally.”
    McCoy exchanged a quick glance with Wieland; he saw his own surprise mirrored on the older man’s face. Had one of the locals seen the crisscrossing laser beams that had saved him from the lightningbeast?
    The subteer held one of his massive hands out flat before his aide. The other man very gingerly laid one of the landing party’s hand lasers upon it.
    McCoy suddenly understood why the landing party was carrying so little equipment: The local powers that be had confiscated their weapons.
    â€œYet you can hurl lightning more powerful even than the lightningbeast’s rage,” Usaak said. “Our scout also says that he saw all of you appear out of thin air.”
    â€œIt might look like that from your perspective,” Wieland said, as the science specialists and security officers shifted uncomfortably. “But I assure you, we are merely men, just as you are. The weapons we carry are nothing more than refined versions of the blades and spears you use in the hunt.”
    â€œOur blades and spears do not carry power fit to rival that of the gods themselves,” Keer said. Awe and outrage commingled in his voice and manner.
    This isn’t good at all , McCoy thought. The Prime Directive clearly prohibited exposing prewarp civilizations, like this one, to transporters, lasers, and most other advanced technologies.
    But such considerations were outside his purview. McCoy was concerned only with the medical aspects of the mission. His thoughts flashed to the hunter who had spent the last two days languishing in the Tent of Dying.
    And he saw an opportunity to make a difference.
    â€œSubteer Usaak,” McCoy said, “we can’t hurl lightning bolts or raise the dead. But sometimes we can chase death away. I stand before you as proof.”
    â€œMore sorcery,” Keer growled.
    â€œNot sorcery.” McCoy locked eyes with Usaak. “Medicine, given to you freely. Will you let me use it in your Tent of Dying? Will you let me try to chase death away from Efeer?”
    â€œSubteer Usaak has already made his decision regarding your Meh-di-sihn ,” Keer said, his tone growing brittle with impatience. “Why do you persist in this matter?”
    â€œBecause Efeer isn’t dead . . . yet,” McCoy said. “There’s