The Heirs of Babylon by Glen Cook Page B

he's yours."

    Kurt tore his eyes from Beck's contorted face, looked
    at Hans. The man was pale and shaking. Afraid? Of what?

    Commander Haber, carrying the ship's medical kit, ar-
    rived shortly, accompanied by Lindemann. Kurt thought
    he saw momentary disappointment flash across Gregor's
    face. He frowned, turned to watch Haber.

    Haber was Jager's approximation of a doctor, though
    his skills were limited to knowledge crammed while the
    vessel was outfitting. His tools were limited, his anesthetics and antibiotics almost nil. He examined Beck quickly,
    said, "Looks hopeless. The arrows missed the major ar-
    teries, but he's still lost a lot of blood. It's a miracle he's alive."

    "Do something!" Kurt pleaded, unable to comprehend the calmness about him. But, outwardly, he was as calm
    as the others. Only his words betrayed his emotions.

    "Right. I'll need help. First I'll have to open his throat so it's certain he can breathe. Kurt, open my bag and . . ."

    "Me, sir?"

    "You. All right, just hand it to me."

    Despite his other emotions, Kurt was sheepish because
    of his queasiness, grew guilty because of a momentary
    regret at not having let Hans have his way, thereby
    sparing himself this.

    Haber's cautious, uncertain work went on for an hour.
    First he removed the arrows from Beck's legs and shoul-
    der—he admitted fear of trying the shaft in the man's
    throat. But it came to that eventually, once the other
    wounds were cleaned, packed, and bandaged. The last
    arrow he carefully cut to either side of Beck's neck, then, with several men holding Beck firmly immobile, he drew
    the shaft with forceps. Luck attended him. It came free
    easily.

47

    But, for a moment, Beck's weak, rasping, open-throated
    breathing ceased. With a frightful grimace, Haber bent to
    Beck's throat and forced his own breath into the man's
    lungs. The Political Officer soon resumed breathing. Haber
    finished his bandaging, wearily said, "That's that, and probably a waste of tune. A thousand-to-one he's dead by
    morning. But I had to try. He'll need a nurse...."

    "I think that's a job for Kurt," said Lindemann. Kurt glanced at his cousin, was startled by the anger in Gregor's face. Lindemann seemed to be thinking, "You want him saved? Then you do it." Had he not been distracted, Kurt could have become very angry.

    "Get that stretcher over here," Haber ordered men who had been standing by. "Wiedermann, will you please keep your men working? This isn't a show. That raft has to be
    finished before dark. Ranke, go back to the ship with
    Beck. I'll have someone take care of Franck."

    Much later, having been relieved of his nursing duties—
    there were out-of-work sonarmen with nothing better to
    do, and Lindemann's pique had apparently faded—Kurt
    stood leaning on the port bridge rail, watching Hans's men
    as they put the finishing touches on their raft. Aft, the
    engineers were just swinging the ruined screw aboard. It
    hit the deck with a clatter. Two of the three blades were
    mangled almost beyond recognition. Briefly, he hoped the
    drive shaft had not been bent. Then he wondered why.
    Silly, worrying about it. It did not matter. There was no
    way to replace the screw.

    A mound of earth headed by a cross now marked the
    place where Franck had fallen. Kurt looked away, not
    wanting to be reminded, went down to the maindeck.
    After collecting a sandwich from the galley, he wandered
    aft, watched the Damage Control party cleaning up, then
    went to bed. Soon his mind wandered into a trap of
    thoughts of Karen.

    Although, from the day he agreed to join Jager's crew,
    their marriage had grown increasingly stormy—and the
    final week had been a bickering hell as she strove to
    overcome his stubborn determination—Kurt wished he
    were home and in her arms. He wished there were a little
    less of the mule in him, a little more of the horse. Why
    did he, these few times he actually took a stand, always
    pick a place in the wrong?

    It was a moment of