Peter Marlowe had known a lot of pain. And when you know a thing, intimately, you know its limitations and its color and its moods. With practice — and courage — you can let yourself slip into pain and then the pain is not bad, only a welling, controllable. Sometimes it is even good.
But this pain was beyond agony.
'Oh God,' Peter Marlowe whimpered through the rubber bite-piece, tears streaming, his breathing sporadic.
'It's over now,' Dr. Kennedy said, knowing that it was not. But there was nothing more he could do, nothing. Not here. Certainly the patient should have morphine, any fool knows that, but I can't afford a shot. 'Now let's have a look.'
He studied the open wound carefully. It was puffy and swollen and there were shades of yellow hue with purple patches. Mucused.
'Hum,' he said speculatively and leaned back and played with his fingers, making a steeple and looking away from the wound to the steeple. 'Well,'
he said at length, 'we have three alternatives.' He got up and began pacing, stoop-shouldered, and then said monotonously, as though delivering a lecture, 'The wound has now taken on other attributes.
Clostridial myositis. Or, to put it more simply, the wound is gangrenous.
Gas gangrenous. I can lay open the wound and excise the infected tissue, but I don't think that will do, for the infection is deep. So I would have to take out part of the forearm muscles and then the hand won't be of use anyway. The best solution would be to amputate —'
'What!'
'Assuredly.' Dr. Kennedy was not talking to a patient, he was only giving a lecture in the sterile classroom of his mind. 'I propose a high guillotine amputation. Immediately. Then perhaps we can save the elbow joint —'
Peter Marlowe burst out desperately, 'It's just a flesh wound. There's nothing wrong with it, it's just a flesh wound!'
The fear of his voice brought Dr. Kennedy back, and he looked at the white face a moment. 'It is a flesh wound, but very deep. And you've got toxemia. Look, my boy, it's quite simple. If I had serum I could give it to you, but I haven't got any. If I had sulfonamides I could put them on the wound, but I haven't got any. The only thing I can do is amputate —'
'You must be out of your mind!' Peter Marlowe shouted at him. 'You talk about amputating my arm when I've only got a flesh wound.'
The doctor's hand snaked out and Peter Marlowe shrieked as the fingers held his arm far above the wound.
'There, you see! That's not just a flesh wound. You've toxemia and it'll spread up your arm and into your system. If you want to live we'll have to cut it off. At least it'll save your life!'
'You're not cutting off my arm!'
'Please yourself. It's that or —' The doctor stopped and sat down wearily.
'I suppose it is your privilege if you want to die. Can't say I blame you. But my God, boy, don't you realize what I'm trying to tell you? You will die if we don't amputate.'
'You're not going to touch me!' Peter Marlowe's lips were drawn from his teeth and he knew he'd kill the doctor if he touched him again. 'You're out of your mind!' he shouted. 'It's a flesh wound.'
'All right. Don't believe me. We'll ask another doctor.' Kennedy called another doctor and he confirmed the diagnosis and Peter Marlowe knew that the nightmare was not a dream. He did have gangrene. Oh my God!
The fear washed his strength away. He listened, terrified. They explained that the gangrene was caused by bacilli multiplying deep down in his arm, breeding death, right now. His arm was a cancerous thing. It had to be cut off. Cut off to the elbow. It had to be cut off soon or the entire arm would have to be removed. But he wasn't to worry. It wouldn't hurt. They had plenty of ether now — not like in the old days.
And then Peter Marlowe was outside the hospital, his arm still on him —bacilli breeding — tied with a clean bandage, and he was groping his way down the hill, for he had told them, the doctors, that he would have to think this over .. Think what over? What was there to think? He found himself outside the American hut and he saw that the King was alone in the hut and all was prepared for Shagata's coming — if he came that night.
'Jesus, what's with you, Peter?' The King listened, his dismay growing as the story spilled out.
'Christ!' He stared at the arm, which rested on the table.
'I swear to God I'd rather die than live a cripple. I swear to God!' Peter Marlowe looked up at the King, pathetic, unguarded, and out of his eyes came a scream: Help, help, for the love of God, help!
And the King thought, Holy Cow, what would I do if I was Peter and that was my arm, and what about the diamond — got to have Peter to help there, got to…
'Hey,' whispered Max urgently from the doorway. 'Shagata's on his way.'
'All right, Max. What about Grey?'
'He's down by the wall under cover. Timsen knows about him. His Aussies're covering.'
'Good, beat it and get ready. Spread the word.'
'Okay.' Max hurried away.
'Come on, Peter, we got to get ready,' the King said.
But Peter Marlowe was in shock. Useless.
'Peter!' The King shook him roughly. 'Get up and get with it!' he grated.
'Come on. You've got to help. Get up!'
He jerked Peter Marlowe to his feet.
'Christ, what —'
