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Mouse was a classic of that genre, at least with the opposite sex.
    Masato Igarashi Storm did nothing by half measures.
    The doctor coughed softly.
    “Will he be all right?” Amy demanded. “He’ll come out okay? I know what you told me, but . . . ”
    Mouse’s facial muscles moved slightly. His wan expression spoke volumes about his disgust at her display.
    The doctor was more patient. “Just an enforced rest, Miss. That’s all it is. There’s nothing wrong that rest can’t cure. I hear he did a hell of a job feeding realtime to Weapons Control. He just pushed himself too far.”
    A look flickered across Mouse’s stony face.
    “What’re you thinking?” Amy demanded.
    “Just that he’s not usually a pusher.”
    Amy was ready for a fight.
    The doctor aborted it by giving benRabi an injection. He began to come around.
    Mouse seemed indifferent to Amy’s response. But not oblivious. He was an astute observer. He just did not care what she thought.
    “Doc,” he said, “is there any special reason for sticking with this kind of medical setup?”
    The woman held benRabi’s wrist, taking his pulse. “What do you mean?”
    “It’s primitive. Almost Archaicist obsolete. They had sonic sedation systems before I was born. Easier on the patient and staff both.”
    The doctor reddened. Mouse had been out of the hospital only a few weeks himself. He had spent a month recuperating from a severe wound received from a Sangaree agent who had tried to seize control of Danion. He was not pleased with the quality of medical care, and made no secret of it. But Mouse hated all doctors and hospitals. He could find fault with the finest.
    BenRabi had tracked the Sangaree woman down, and had shot her . . . 
    Mouse had the nerve to stand toe-to-toe with the Devil and tell him to put it where the sun doesn’t shine.
    “We have to make do with what we can afford, Mr. Storm.”
    “So I’ve been told.” Mouse did not pursue it, though he thought Seiners pleading poverty was on a par with Midas begging alms on a street corner.
    BenRabi opened his eyes.
    “How you doing, Moyshe?” Storm asked, trampling Amy’s more dramatic opener. His presence there, betraying his concern, embarrassed him.
    The fabric of centuries takes the stamp; they mark the children indelibly. Their legacy remains as invisible and irresistible as the secret coded in DNA. The young Mouse had learned that Old Earthers were pariahs.
    Mouse’s family had been in Service for three generations. They were part of Confederation’s military aristocracy. BenRabi’s forebears had been unemployed Social Insurees for centuries.
    Neither man considered himself prejudiced. But false truths sown in the fallows of childhood, planted deep, continued to sprout unrealistic real-world responses.
    BenRabi had begun bridling his prejudice early. He had to survive. There had been only two Old Earthers in his Academy battalion.
    He needed a minute to get his bearings. “What am I doing here?” he demanded.
    “You needed rest,” Amy told him. “Lots of it. You overdid it this time.”
    “Come on. I can take care of myself. I know when . . . ”
    “Crap!” the doctor snapped. “Every mindtech thinks that. And then they turn up here, burned out. I change their diapers and spoon feed them. What is it with you people, benRabi? You all got egos two sizes too big for a small god.”
    Moyshe was fuzzy. He tried to say something flip. His tongue felt like it was wrapped in an old sock.
    He saw tears in the doctor’s eyes. “Did you lose someone at Stars’ End?”
    “My sister. She came out of creche just before you landsmen came aboard. She was only seventeen, benRabi.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “No, you’re not. You’re a mindtech. Anyway, sorry doesn’t help. Not when I have to take care of her every day. She was just like you, benRabi. She knew she could handle it. She wouldn’t listen either. None of them would. Not even the controllers, who should’ve