I was a little slow, but I reached Joel then, knocked the steaming pot from his hands; it smashed against the wall behind Pogey, spewed steam and liquid in a wide sheet that caught the horse-faced man all across the back.
He howled, writhed away from the table, clutching at his shoulder. He screamed again, tore at his jacket. Doc came to his feet, grabbing at the bottle as it tottered, almost fell. The horse-faced man clawed his shirt open, ripped it from his shoulders. A vast red blister swelled visibly from his patchy hairline almost to the soiled edge of the underwear showing above his belt. His eye fell on Doc.
"Do something, damn your guts!" he shrilled. "Oh, Jesus…"
Doc started around the table. I caught his arm. "To hell with that sadist," I said. "Take a look at Joel's hands."
Joel still stood, staring at his hands. A tear formed, rolled down his cheek.
"I'll kill him!" Pogey screeched. He plunged across the room, knocked the sailor aside, caught up a steak knife, and whirled on Joel. I pushed in front of him. The odors of sweat and alcohol came from him in waves. I caught his wrist, remembering not to pulp the bone.
"Joel," I said, my eyes holding on Pogey's. "If this man ever hurts you again, put your thumbs into his throat until he stops moving, understand?"
I twitched the knife from Pogey's hand, shoved him away. His face was as white as the dead face of the thing I had killed in the ravine. The recollection must have shown in my expression.
Pogey whimpered, backed, turned to the sailor who was standing wide-eyed, all warts and Adam's apple, looking from one of us to another like a spectator at a ping-pong tournament.
"Get me to my room," Pogey gasped. His knees went slack as the sailor caught him. Behind me, Joel moaned.
"Let's get this boy down to my sick-bay," Doc was saying. "Second-degree, maybe worse. Calluses helped…"
As I turned, his eyes found mine. "You better let me take a look at you, too," he said. "You're hotter'n a power pile, Jones."
"Never mind that," I snapped. "Just see to Joel."
Doc eyed the cut on my face. "You should have had a couple of stitches."
"All I need is to get to Jax and get clear of this scow," I said. "Let's get moving."
Doc shrugged. "Suit yourself." He went out, leading Joel. I followed.
An hour later, in the cramped, paper-heaped room the Mate called his office, I stood before the ancient plastic-topped desk, waiting for him to finish his tirade. Two sailors lounged against the wall, watching. Joel stood beside me, his bandage-swathed hands looking bigger than ever. Carboni's good eye looked up at him from under his ragged eyebrows.
"I had enough of your numbskull tricks," he growled. "When we hit Jax, you're finished."
"Gosh, Carboni," Joel started.
"Beat it," the Mate said. "I got work to do." He switched his glance to me. "You stick around, I got things to say to you."
I put a hand on the desk to keep it from spinning.
"How's Pogey feeling?" My voice seemed to belong to someone else.
Carboni's meaty face darkened.
"We'll see about you when we hit Jax, punk. I got plans for you."
"Don't bother," I said. "I intend to resign my position anyway."
"I'm a patient guy." Carboni got to his feet, walked around the desk. "But I got a bellyfull-" He pivoted suddenly, threw a punch that slammed against my stomach. He jumped back with a bellow, his face draining to a dirty white. One of the sailors brought a hand into view behind him, pointed a massive, old-model blued-steel Browning needle-gun at my belt buckle.
We waited, not moving, while Carboni cursed, gripping his fist and grinding his plates.
"Walk him to the brig, Slocum!" he roared. "And watch him! There's something funny about this guy!"
The gun-handler jabbed the weapon at me. "Get moving, you."
The brig was a bare-walled cell illuminated by a single overhead glare panel and outfitted with a stainless-steel water closet with stains, and a hinged plastic shelf two feet wide padded with a moldy smelling mattress half an inch thick.
I sat on the floor, leaned against the wall; the feel of the cool metal was soothing to my hot face. The beat of my pulse was like a brass gong behind my temples. My left forearm ached to the shoulder with a deep-seated pain that made every movement an ordeal. I turned the sleeve back; under the crude dressing, the wounds were inflamed, evil-looking.
I got out a tube of ointment Doc had given me, applied it to the ragged cuts, smeared more on the slash across my face, managed to reach the higher of the wounds on my left shoulder before the supply ran out.
A panel covering a peephole in the door clanged open. A pale, fat man with a crumpled white-billed cap peered in at me through the foot-square grille. He muttered and turned away. I keened my hearing, following him:
"… dock at Jacksonville… nine hours…"
"… in touch with 'em…" Carboni's voice said, fading now as they moved away. "… in irons… on the pier…"
"… don't like it… ask questions…"
I sat up, fighting against a throbbing fever-daze in which the events of the past weeks mingled with fragments of nightmare. Jacksonville in nine hours, the Captain had said. It was time to start planning.
I got to my feet, swaying like a palm-tree in a high wind. I went to the door, ignoring violent pains in my skull. I pushed against the door, gauging its strength. It was solid, massively hinged, and with a locking bar engaged at both ends, impossible to force, even if I hadn't been weakened by fever.
I went back, wavered as I walked, and half-fell to the floor. A wave of nausea rolled over me, and left me shivering violently.
I would have to wait… I forced my thoughts to hold to the subject. Wait until they came to open the cell door. There would be a band, dressed all in red, and General Julius would be leading it…
I fought the fantasy away. Delirium waited like a mire beside the narrow path of reason. Nothing to do with Julius. Julius was dead. I had strangled him, while he bit at me. The dog-things had chased me, and now I was on the beach. It was cold, cold… I shivered violently, huddling against the steel cliff…
Time passed, Joel was calling my name. He needed help, but I was trapped here. There was a way up the cliff: I could fly. I had the suit, and now I was fitting the helmet in place, and through it, Joel stared with agony-filled eyes There were hands on me, voices near. A sharp pain stabbed in my arm. I pulled away, fighting a weight that crushed me.
"Please, Jones… don't hit the Doc…"
I got my eyes open. Joel's face loomed above me. Blood ran from his nose. Doc's frightened face stared. I fell back, feeling my heart pound like a shoeing hammer.
"Can you hold him, boy?" Doc's voice was anxious.
"S'all righ'," I managed. "Awake now…"
"You been awful sick, Jones," Joel said. He raised his bandaged hand, dabbed at his nose, smeared blood across his cheek. Doc moved closer, working over me. I felt his hands on my arm. He grunted.
"My God, Jones, what did this?"
"Dog-bite." My voice was a hoarse whisper.
"Another few hours… no attention… burial at sea…" his voice came and went. I fought to hold onto consciousness.