"That's a reflection off the ice, sir. The flower's down here." Holding his breath, he took Waverill's hand and moved it toward the flower. He found himself gritting his teeth and wincing as Waverill's fingers explored delicately around the flower. The bee crawled out, apparently not aware of anything unusual, and moved away a few inches. It settled on a leaf and began working its legs together. Murdoch felt like screaming. Waverill's fingers stopped their exploration, then, as the bee was silent, began again. Waverill bent over to bring his eyes closer to his hand. * * * * * Shaking with anxiety now, Murdoch executed the small movements of his right hand that forced the tiny instrument out from between his thumb and forefinger. He felt a panicky desire to hurry, and forced himself to move slowly. He transferred the tiny syringe to his left hand, which was nearer Waverill. Waverill was about to pluck the blossom. Murdoch moved his right hand forward, trying--in case the aliens could see, though he had his body in the way--to make the move casual. He flicked a finger near the bee. The bee leaped into the air, its buzz high-pitched and loud. Waverill tensed. Murdoch cried, "Look out, sir!" and grabbed at Waverill's hand. He jabbed the miniature syringe into the fleshy part of the hand, at the outside, just below the wrist. "Damn you!" Waverill bellowed, slapping at his right hand with his left. He jerked away from Murdoch. "Here, sir! Let me help you!" "Get away from me, you clumsy fool!" "Please, sir. Let me get the stinger out. You'll squeeze more poison into your skin." Waverill faced him, a hand raised as if to strike. Then he lowered it. "All right, damn you; and be careful about it." Shakily, Murdoch took Waverill's hand. The syringe, dangling from the skin, held a trace of red in its minute plastic bulb. Murdoch gasped for breath and fought to make his fingers behave. He got hold of the syringe and drew it out. Pretending to drop it, he hid it in the junction of the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. He kept his body between them and the building, and tried to make his actions convincing. "There. It's out, sir." Waverill was still cursing in a low voice. Presently he stopped, but his face was still hard with anger. "Take me inside." "Yes, sir." Murdoch was weak with reaction. He drew a painful breath, gave the older man his left arm and led him back. The tiny thing between his fingers felt as large and as conspicuous as a handgun. IV