'And yet you have faith in the King,' Father Donovan said quietly.
'I suppose you're going to say he's an instrument of God?'
'Perhaps he is. I don't know.'
'I must tell him that.' Peter Marlowe laughed hysterically. 'He'd laugh to high heaven.'
'Listen, Marlowe!' Larkin got up, shaking with rage. 'You'd better apologize or get out!'
'Don't worry, Colonel,' Peter Marlowe slammed back 'I'm leaving.' He got up and glared at them, hating them, hating himself. 'Listen, priest. You're a joke. Your skirts're a joke. You're all an unholy joke, you and God. You don't serve God because God's the devil. You're the servant of the devil.'
And then he scooped some of the cards off the table and threw them into Father Donovan's face and stormed out into the darkness.
'What in God's name has happened to Peter?' Mac said, shattering the appalled silence.
'In God's name,' Father Donovan said compassionately.
'Peter has gangrene. He has to have his arm amputated or he will die.
You could see the scarlet streaks clearly, above his elbow.'
'What?' Larkin stared at Mac, petrified. Then simultaneously they both got up and began hurrying out. But Father Donovan called them back.
'Wait, there's nothing you can do.'
'Dammit, there must be something.' Larkin stood in the doorway. 'The poor lad — and I thought — the poor lad —'
'There's nothing to do, except wait. Except have faith, and pray. Perhaps the King will help, can help.' Then Father Donovan added tiredly, 'The King is the only man who can.'
Peter Marlowe stumbled into the American hut. 'I'll get the money now,'
he muttered to the King.
'Are you crazy? There's too many people around.'
'To hell with the people,' Peter Marlowe said angrily. 'Do you want the money or not?'
'Sit down. Sit down.' The King forced Peter Marlowe to sit and gave him a cigarette and forced him to drink coffee and thought, Jesus, what I have to do for a little loot. Patiently he told Peter Marlowe to keep his wits about him, that everything was going to be all right, for the cure was already arranged, and after an hour Peter Marlowe was calmer and at least coherent. But the King knew he was not getting through to him. He saw that he was nodding from time to time, but he knew, deep down, that Peter Marlowe was quite beyond him, and if he was beyond him, the King, he was beyond anyone.
'Is it time now?' Peter Marlowe asked, almost blinded with pain, knowing if he did not go now he would never go.
The King knew that it was too early for safety, but he knew too that he could not keep him in the hut any longer. So he sent guards in all directions. The whole area was covered. Max was watching Grey, who was on his bunk. Byron Jones III was watching Timsen. And Timsen was north, by the gate, waiting for the drug shipment, and Timsen's boys, another source of danger, were still desperately combing the area for the hijacker.
The King and Tex watched Peter Marlowe walk, zombie-like, out of the hut and across the path and up to the storm ditch. He wavered on the brink, then stepped across it and began to stagger towards the fence.
'Jesus,' Tex said. 'I can't watch!'
'I can't either,' the King said.
Peter Marlowe was trying to focus his eyes on the fence, through the pain and delirium that was engulfing him. He was praying for a bullet. He could stand the agony no longer. But no bullet came, so he walked on, grimly erect, then reeled against the fence. He grabbed a wire to steady himself for a moment. Then he bent down to step through the wires and gave a little moan as he fell into the dregs of hell.
The King and Tex ran to the fence and picked him up and dragged him away from the fence.
'What's the matter with him?' someone asked from the darkness.
'Guess he's just gone stir-crazy,' the King said. 'Come on, Tex, let's get him in the hut.'
They carried him into the hut and laid him on the King's bed. Then Tex hurried away to recall their guards and the hut returned to normal. Just one guard out.
Peter Marlowe lay on the bed, moaning and mumbling deliriously. After a while, he came out of the faint. 'Oh Christ,' he gasped and tried to get off the bed, but his body defeated him.
'Here,' the King said anxiously, giving him four aspirins. 'Take it easy, you'll be all right.' His hand was shaking as he helped him to drink some water. Son of a bitch, he thought bitterly, if Timsen doesn't bring the stuff tonight Peter won't make it, and if he doesn't, then how the hell am I going to get the dough? Son of a bitch!
When Timsen finally arrived the King was a wreck.
'Hi, cobber.' Timsen was nervous too. He had had to cover for his best cobber up by the main gate while the man had gone through the wire and into the Japanese doctor's quarters, which were fifty yards away and not so very far from the Yoshima house and too near the guardhouse for any man's nerves. But the Aussie had sneaked in and sneaked out, and while Timsen knew there ain't no thief in the world like a Digger on the make for a piece of merchandise, no thief in the world, even so he had sweated, waiting until the man got back safely.
'Where we going to fix him?' he asked.
'Here.'
'All right. Better post some guards.'
'Where's the nurse?'
