'Of course it's on,' the King said proudly. 'We just fixed you up. Antitoxin, the lot. Me and Timsen!'
But Peter Marlowe only looked at him, his mouth working and no words coming out. Then at length, he said in a whisper, 'It's still on.' He used his right hand to feel the arm that should not be there but was. And when he was sure he was not dreaming, he lay back in a pool of sweat and closed his eyes and began to cry. A few minutes later he was asleep.
'Poor bugger,' Timsen said. 'He must've thought he was on the op table.'
'How long's he going to be out?'
'About another couple of hours. Listen,' Timsen said, 'he's got to have an injection every six hours until the toxin's out of him. For, say, about forty-eight hours. And new dressings every day. And more sulfa. But you got to remember. He must keep up the injections. And don't be surprised if he vomits all over the place. There's bound to be a reaction. A bad one. I made the first dose heavy.'
'You think he'll be all right?'
'I'll answer that in ten days.' Timsen got the haversack together and made a neat little parcel of the towel, soap, hypodermic, antitoxin and sulfa powder. 'Now let's settle up, right?'
The King took out the pack that Shagata had given him. 'Smoke?'
'Ta.'
When the cigarettes were lit the King said, matter of fact, 'We can settle up when the diamond deal goes through.'
'Oh no, mate. I delivers, I get paid. That's nothing to do with this,' Timsen said sharply.
'No harm in waiting a day or so.'
'You got enough money and then some from the profit —' He stopped suddenly as he hit upon the answer. 'Oho!' he said with a broad smile, jerking his thumb at Peter Marlowe. 'No money until your cobber goes an'
gets it, right?'
The King slipped off his wrist watch. 'You want to hold this as security?'
'Oh no, matey, I trust you.' He looked at Peter Marlowe. 'Well, seems like a lot depends on you, old son.' When he turned back to the King his eyes were crinkled merrily. 'Gives me time, too, don't it?'
'Huh?' the King said innocently.
'Come off it, mate. You know the ring's been bushwhacked.
'There's only you in the camp what can handle it. If I could've, you think I'd let you in on it?' Timsen's beam was seraphic. 'So that gives me time to find the bushwhacker, right? If be conies to you first, you won't have the money to pay, right? Without the money he won't let go of it, right? No money, no deal.' Timsen waited and then said benignly, ''Course you could tell me when the bastard offers it, couldn't you? After all, it's me property, right?'
'Right,' the King said agreeably.
'But you won't,' Timsen sighed. 'Wot a lot of ruddy thieves.'
He bent over Peter Marlowe and checked his pulse. 'Hum,' he said reflectively. 'Pulse's up.'
'Thanks for the help, Tim.'
'Think nothing of it, mate. I got a vested interest in the bastard, right? And I'm going t'watch him like a ruddy 'awk. Right?'
He laughed again and went out.
The King was exhausted. After he had made himself some coffee he felt better, and he lay back in the chair and drifted into sleep.
He awoke with a start and looked at the bed. Peter Marlowe was staring at him.
'Hello,' Peter Marlowe said weakly.
'How you feel?' The King stretched and got up.
'Like hell. I'm going to be sick any moment. You know, there's nothing —nothing I can say —'
The King lit the last of the Kooas and stuck it between Peter Marlowe's lips. 'You earned it, buddy.'
While Peter Marlowe lay gathering strength, the King told him about the treatment and what had to be done.
'The only place I can think of,' Peter Marlowe said, 'is the colonel's place.
Mac can wake me and help me down from the hut. I can lie on my own bunk most of the time.'
The King gingerly held one of his mess cans as Peter Marlowe vomited.
'Better keep it handy and dry. My God,' Peter Marlowe said aghast as he remembered. 'The money! Did I get it?'
'No. You passed out this side of the wire.'
'Oh God, I don't think I could make it tonight.'
'No sweat, Peter. Soon as you feel better. No point in taking chances.'
'It won't harm the deal?'
'No. Don't worry about that.'
Peter Marlowe was sick again, and when he had recovered he looked terrible. 'Funny,' he said, holding back
