Hal Clement: Space Lash

Rick stared aghast. “My gosh, Yes, I did. I held it against one of the side hulls because it was so slippery…I'm sorry…I didn't know…"

“Relax. Of course you didn't. Neither did I, then; and I never thought of the possibility later. One of the struts was weakened enough to fail at high cruise, though, and Newton's Laws did the rest.”

“But does that mean that the other ships are in danger? How about the Guppy here? Can anything be done?”

“Oh, sure. It was done long ago. A virus for that growth was designed within a few weeks of its original escape; its gene structure is on file. The mutation is enough like the original to be susceptible to the virus. We've made up a supply of it, and will be sowing it around the area for the next few weeks wherever one of the tenders goes. But why change the subject, young fellow? Your folks have been phoning, because I couldn't help hearing their talk when I was on watch. Why all this burning need to write letters? I begin to smell the proverbial rat.”

He noticed with professional approval that the blush on Rick's face was quite uniform; evidently a good job had been done on the capillaries and their auxiliary nerves and muscles. “Give, son!”

“It's… it's not important,” muttered the boy.

“Not important…oh, I see. Not important enough to turn you into a dithering nincompoop at the possibility of having your handsome features changed slightly, or make you drop back to second-grade level when it came to the responsibility for making a simple decision. I see. Well, it doesn't matter; she'll probably do all the deciding for you.”

The blush burned deeper. “All right, Marco, don't sound like an ascetic; I know you aren't. Just do your job and get this hand fixed so I can write — at least there's still one form of communication you won't be unable to avoid overhearing while you're on watch.”

“What a sentence! Are you sure you really finished school? But it's all right, Rick — the hand will be back in service soon, and it shouldn't take you many weeks to learn to write with it again…"

“What?”

“It is a new set of nerves, remember. They're connected with the old ones higher up in your hand and arm, but even with the old hand as a guide they probably won't go to exactly the same places to make contact with touch transducers and the like. Things will feel different, and you'll have to learn to use a pen all over again.” The boy stared at him in dismay. “But don't worry. I'll do my best, which is very good, and it will only be a few more weeks. One thing, though — don't call your letter-writing problem my business; I'm just a mechanic. If you're really in love, you'd better get in touch with a doctor.”