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Osric swept a hand through his hair. She ignored him. He flexed his abs. No reaction. He bit his lip. Disregarded. He made a deep guttural sound when she wiped cold hlutoform against him. She told him to act like a grown man.

She was the Worst.

The toga was shifted to one side; the hlutoform completed its acrid responsibilities; the diffractor’s tentacle was pressed to Osric’s chest and began its chortling.

“Why are your shoulders scratched up like this?” asked Fairhrim.

“I’m having an affair,” said Osric, sexily.

“With a rodent?” asked Fairhrim.

Osric, who was not actually a rat fucker, was compelled to clarify: “It was your bloody deofol who scratched me up.”

“Oh,” said Fairhrim.

She, notably, made no apology.

Fairhrim attached sticky things on wires to various bits of Osric (notthosebits, but other, less exciting bits). (Anyway, he hadn’t any interest in Fairhrim touching his bits.)

As before, a shiny silhouette, vaguely man shaped, was projected onto the wall by the diffractor. White lines representing healthy seith channels shimmered; black lines vined through them morbidly.

“Don’t move,” said Fairhrim, as she studied the image.

Osric was disturbed to see bright pinpricks along his seith channels, which certainly hadn’t been there before.

“What are those spots?” he asked.

The image on the wall distorted and flickered as he spoke; the diffractor’s chuckling grew churlish.

“I said, don’t move,” said Fairhrim. “Those are my seith markers.”

Fairhrim stared at the figure on the wall for an eternity lasting two minutes. She tucked a finger under her chin and said, “Hmm,” but Osric did not know if it was a goodhmmor a badhmm.

She took out a complicated silver instrument, took measurements from the figure on the wall, and noted the results in Osric’s chart. The chart was temperamental and twitchy, but grew docile as she began to fill it in. Osric noticed that, underPatient Name, she had inserted an alias, which was fine, but that the alias was U. Ganglion, which offended him.

“You may relax,” said Fairhrim, as she made her notes. She spoke absently as she wrote. “Your seith system is wonderfully robust, barring the disease. Really makes it a pleasure to study. Much of my work involves civilians, who only use their seith for waystone travel or to send a barely formed deofol. Their channels hardly show up on the diffractor. You’ve got such well-developed lines. Quite juicy.” Fairhrim looked up. “How’s the torpraxia? The numbness?”

“Persevering.”

“Tell me when you stop feeling this,” said Fairhrim.

Osric answered as she ran a cool finger down his arms, and then his thighs and legs, and down his chest and back. Notes were duly taken. No thoughts were had about the nearness of finger to bits; and if the finger was soft, Osric did not notice.

Fairhrim went back to her chart.

“Have you anything good to tell me?” asked Osric.

“No,” came the pitiless reply.

“Why not?” asked Osric, in tones that were, admittedly, a bit whingy.

“The rate of the deterioration remains within expected parameters,” said Fairhrim.

“So nothing we’ve done has had any impact?”

“Not a measurable one—not on your seith system, anyway,” said Fairhrim, with the implication that there had been diverse nefarious impacts elsewhere.

“We’ve been wasting our time,” said Osric.