Free Far-Seer by Robert J. Sawyer

keen, too valuable, to waste on such animal concerns.”
    “The people need to eat.”
    “The people are going to need much, much more than just fresh meat if we…” Saleed stopped short. Mondark opened his mouth slightly, a questioning gesture. Apparently Saleed felt he couldn’t just end there. At last he said, “There are tough times ahead, Doctor. Tough times, indeed.”
    Mondark’s tail swished back and forth. His claws unsheathed. Fear. “You have read a portent in the sky. The stars foretell our doom!”
    Yenalb stopped working on Afsan’s tattoo and looked up at the astrologer. For a moment, Saleed closed both his eyes. He apparently was uncomfortable, as though, perhaps, the medic had read him too plainly, had taken his meaning too clearly. Or perhaps not, for after a moment Saleed clicked his own teeth in gentle humor. “You may be taking me too literally,” he said at last. “Just because I’m an astrologer doesn’t mean I always speak of heavenly revelations. Perhaps I meant, in a general sense, that our progress as a people simply depends upon the sharp minds of our young.”
    Mondark seemed about to speak again when Afsan, prone before them, let out a small groan, a sound coming more from deep in his chest than from his throat. Yenalb quickly moved out of the way and the medic loomed in, bringing his earhole to Afsan’s chest.
    “Well?” snapped Saleed.
    “His heart is beating more steadily.” Mondark laid his palm across Afsan’s forehead. “He’s managed to raise his body temperature well above the ambient, meaning his metabolism has strengthened considerably.” He shouted, “Paturn, bring bowls of blood!”
    Mondark’s team was well-trained. Within moments a young male appeared bearing a tray full of simple clay hemispheres filled with red liquid. Paturn was no older than Afsan himself, judging by his size. He set the tray on a counter and brought the first bowl to Afsan, forcing Afsan’s jaws open and letting the blood trickle into his short muzzle and down his throat.
    Mondark stepped back from the marble surgical table and motioned for Saleed and Yenalb to follow. Softly he said, “The animal blood will help rehydrate him, and its taste usually arouses the spirit. He’s fighting for consciousness now.”
    Paturn drained three bowls down Afsan’s throat, although much spilled out of his gaping muzzle and pooled on the tabletop. Suddenly Afsan spluttered. Paturn immediately ceased pouring blood into him and turned Afsan’s head aside so that his throat would drain onto the tabletop.
    “Is he coming around?” asked Yenalb.
    Mondark bent over Afsan and firmly gripped the boy by the shoulders. Saleed’s nictitating membranes blinked in surprise. “Such physical contact often forces a reaction,” said Mondark, almost apologetically.
    But Afsan’s coughing stopped almost as quickly as it had begun. Mondark shook him gently, but to no avail.
    The doctor swore quietly. “Roots.”
    “Have you lost him?” Saleed demanded.
    Mondark straightened. “I don’t know.”
    Suddenly there was another voice in the room. “You had better not lose him, Mondark.”
    Heads swiveled. “Prince Dybo…” Bows of concession all around.
    “I said I would be back,” said Dybo. He looked at Yenalb. “I am pleased you came,” he said. And then he turned to Saleed. “It’s good to see you here, as well, astrologer.”
    Saleed dipped his muzzle. He looked uncomfortable and moved quickly to the doorway. He nodded concession to Mondark. “You’ve looked after him well. My thanks.” And then, off-handedly, he added, “Oh, and don’t tell Afsan I was here, please.” And with that, the old astrologer hurried down the corridor as fast as his age and bulk would allow.
    “What have you done for him, Doctor?” asked Dybo.
    “Everything possible,” said Mondark.
    Dybo then turned to Yenalb. “And you?”
    “I have used every prayer I could think of,” said the high priest.
    The prince