Fisher knew that Fang was probably taking the right course of action, but when he turned away, and she turned to continue working on the situation with Devereaux, dismissing him as if he were the same as that brown-nosing weak-ass excuse for a personality Papa, Fisher lost it.



He had worked for over a year for this moment. He had the patience of a chess player, but enough was enough. Things were Happening, things that could jeopardize the mission, and he was being shut out. He'd spent the last three days pushing everyone, especially Fang, in the direction they needed to go. The injections he had given her has ensured that she'd gotten the rest she needed to be sharp at this crucial juncture.



She was correct -- he could not last much longer and operate well. That was why bagging the dragon now was essential. Why couldn't Fang see that? Something could happen in the next five minutes, or next five hours, that would require his expertise. That's why he was here. Sending him to bed now would be a tragic error.



The dragon was right there! They had tried once, failed, and learned from that mistake. Maybe they would have a better chance if he had taken the side of the dragon in the simulations, but he respected Devereaux as a competent, intelligent scientist. It was more careful now to hurry.



How could Fang be so very, very stupid?



How?



Feeling Henderson looming nearby, but the collective attention elsewhere, Fisher turned back to Fang. "No!" he shouted. "We need to act now!"



Fang spun.



His arm flew out, the agent of his subconscious will without his conscious intent. Physical violence was such an easy solution, accessible to his low brain that was preeminent in his current state. His remaining higher reasoning, distant and powerless, noted the irony that she had taught him how to box, how to use violence.



Papa yelled, "Watch out!"



Uncontrollably Fisher's mouth twisted into a caricature of rage as his fist hurtled toward impact.



Whether in response to Papa's warning or to that innate psychic sense she seemed to have when boxing, the outcome was the same. Fang shifted suddenly, the tip of her right boot pivoted to point at him, and her body followed. Her blonde hair moved in one piece, like a helmet, as she dodged his blow.



He fell past her, his shoulders and upper torso following his punch just as he had been taught. His cheek caught on the edge of Fang's leather belt.



His skin ripped away as he collapsed in a tumble on the thin bridge ruglings, which had massed as best the could and inflated to cushion his fall in the high gravity.

"Good god," Fang said.

Green light spilled from Fisher's exposed face, a great deal of it, and he thought for a confused moment that he had started his punch on the deck of the Karamojo and ended it on some other world that sported fields of lush grass. Blood from his cheek spotted the grass with black. Then the ruglings deflated and slithered back to their normal aereal density. "Damn it damn it damn it," he said on hands and knees, as he found himself caught between the two worlds, but being rapidly pulled back to the one he wasn't pleased with.

"You said it," Fang agreed evenly.

Fisher started to stand, but Stearn took hold of his collar and held him. His flush of adrenaline had faded and left him wobbly. He was so tired, he realized.

"Easy, Jack," Fisher said. "I screwed up, but I'm sorry now."

"What you want me to do with him, Captain?" Stearn asked.

Now Fisher felt exhausted, the rush of rage gone, and he truly hoped they would let him sleep. His stinging eyes watered up. He could figure it out later if they would only let him sleep.