'That's one way of looking at it, sir,' the King said politely. He picked up the tobacco and put it back in his own box; Masters would not need it now.
'What'd he die of?'
'Lack of spirit.' The doctor stifled a yawn. His teeth were stained and dirty, and his hair lank and dirty, and his hands pink and spotless.
'You mean will to live?'
'That's one way of looking at it.' The doctor glowered up at the King.
'That's one thing you won't die of, isn't it?'
'Hell no. Sir.'
'What makes you so invincible?' Dr. Kennedy asked, hating this huge body which exuded health and strength.
'I don't follow you. Sir.'
'Why are you all right, and all the rest not?'
'I'm just lucky,' the King said and started to leave. But the doctor caught his shirt.
'It can't be just luck. It can't. Maybe you're the devil sent to try us further!
You're a vampire and a cheat and a thief…'
'Listen, you. I've never thieved or cheated in my life and I won't take that from anyone.'
'Then just tell me how you do it? How? That's all I want to know. Don't you see? You're the answer for all of us. You're either good or evil and I want to know which you are.'
'You're crazy,' the King said, jerking his arm away.
'You can help us…'
'Help yourself. I'm worrying about me. You worry about you.' The King noticed how Dr. Kennedy's white coat hung away from his emaciated chest. 'Here,' he said, giving him the remains of a pack of Kooas. 'Have a cigarette. Good for the nerves. Sir.' He wheeled around and strode out, shuddering. He hated hospitals. He hated the stench and the sickness and the impotence of the doctors.
The King despised weakness. That doctor, he thought, he's for the big jump, the son of a bitch. Crazy guy like that won't last long. Like Masters, poor guy! Yet maybe Masters wasn't a poor guy — he was Masters and he was weak and therefore no goddamned good. The world was a jungle, and the strong survived and the weak should die. It was you or the other guy. That's right. There is no other way.
Dr. Kennedy stared at the cigarettes blessing his luck. He lit one. His whole body drank the nicotine sweet. Then he went into the ward, over to Johnny Carstairs, DSO, Captain, 1st Tank Regiment, who was almost a corpse.
'Here,' he said, giving him the cigarette.
'What about you, Dr. Kennedy?'
'I don't smoke, never have.'
'You're lucky.' Johnny coughed as he took a puff, and a little blood came up with the phlegm. The strain of the cough contracted his bowels and blood-liquid gushed out of him, for his anus muscles had long since collapsed.
'Doc,' Johnny said. 'Put my boots on me, will you, please? I've got to get up.'
The old man looked all around. It was hard to see, for the ward's night light was dimmed and carefully screened.
'There aren't any,' he said, peering myopically back at Johnny as he sat on the edge of the bed.
'Oh. Well, that's that then.'
'What sort of boots were they?'
A thin rope of tears welled from Johnny's eyes. 'Kept those boots in good shape. Those boots marched me a lifetime. Only thing I had left.'
'Would you like another cigarette?'
'Just finishing, thanks.'
Johnny lay back in his own filth.
'Pity about my boots,' he said.
Dr. Kennedy sighed and took off his laceless boots and put them on Johnny's feet. 'I've got another pair,' he lied, then stood up barefoot, an ache in his back.
Johnny wriggled his toes,, enjoying the feel of the roughed leather. He tried to look at them but the effort was too much.
'I'm dying,' he said.
'Yes,' the doctor said. There was a time - was there ever a time? - when he would have forced his best bedside manner. No reason now.
'Pretty pointless, isn't it, Doc? Twenty-two years and nothing. From nothing, into nothing.'
An air current brought the promise of dawn into the ward.
'Thanks for the loan of your boots,' Johnny said. 'Something I always promised myself. A man's got to have boots.'
