Slave of Sarma

Chapter Twenty One

Lord Leighton said: "Try to calm down a bit, J. It's all right now. The boy is going to come through in fine shape. And please do stop pacing - you interfere with my concentration."

J told His Lordship, in no uncertain terms, what he could do with his concentration. Blade was in surgery, fighting for his life, and His Lordship was worried about his bloody tapes and closed circuit TV and his ruddy concentration.

J was in a bad state of nerves - this whole operation had been demoralizing - and Lord Leighton was prepared to make allowances. J was as a father to Blade, that was it, as though the boy were his own flesh and blood, and that sort of thing was understandable.

They were in the debriefing room beneath the Tower. Banks of tape recorders reeled and clicked. On a square oblong of lighted screen they watched Dr. Kenneth Bates-Denby, Royal College of Surgeons, operating on Blade. Two masked assistants hovered near him.

Until now the small, compact, completely self-sufficient surgery had never been used for anything more than patching minor wounds. It was wired into the debriefing room and J and Lord L could hear as well as see.

Bates-Denby extended a hand and a gleaming tool was slapped into it. "I'm going to trim a few centimeters of flesh from beneath the skin flaps," the surgeon said. "There will be scarring, but not too bad. Have those sutures ready. We're just about ready to finish up."

J turned away from the picture. For a man in his job he had a peculiar aversion to blood. Maybe, he thought, I am getting too old for this sort of thing. It needs thinking out. When the boy is on his feet again perhaps we can take a little holiday together. Thrash matters out. Maybe I can talk him out of going into X Dimension again. Hope so. The lad has certainly done his bit!

Lord Leighton hobbled to a white steel table and picked up the bloody lance point. It was broad, triangular, razor sharp and there was a foot or so of hardwood shaft fitted to it. His Lordship touched it gingerly with a finger, then picked up a typed slip of paper and read it for perhaps the fifth time.

He turned to J. "Three distinct types of blood on the lance point. Three! What do you make of that, J?"

"Very little. As usual. We'll have to wait until the boy is well enough to undergo hypnosis and debriefing. All we have gotten so far is some muttering about a purple sea and uranium."

"Ah," said His Lordship. "Ah! Uranium. I am looking forward to hearing about that."

J fumbled for his pouch and pipe. "Much bloody good it will do us out in X Dimension."

"You never know," Lord L said cheerfully. "I'm working on something now that is going to amaze you."

J scowled. "Spare me for now. I am sufficiently amazed that Blade got back alive - with a hole in him large enough to drive a tank through."

Lord L went back to perusing the lance point. "You exaggerate," he murmured. "As usual you exaggerate. Though I will admit the lad was one hell of a bloody mess when he turned up in the computer. But that is over and done with and all is going to be well - I wish I could puzzle out this, little spot of mystery. Three distinct types of blood! Two of them well known to us. One is Blade's, of course, and the other also Caucasian. It's the third type that is the puzzler, J. A new blood type - unknown to our science. Hmmmm - the best the hematologist can say is that it approaches R type, but not exactly R. Hmmm - leaves us nowhere."

J lit his pipe and puffed deeply. It did not comfort him as much as usual. "Blade was out in X Dimension," he said a bit acidly. "God only knows what creatures he met."

"Hmm - yes. You're right. Well, it will all come out in the debriefing. Under hypnosis it will pour out of his memory bank. And I suppose we can take it for granted that he killed his man? Certainly there must have been some bloody fighting at the very last, eh?"

"I take nothing for granted," said J crossly. "You are right about one thing - no use straining our wits, we'll just have to wait and see. Ah, Bates-Denby has left the surgery."

A moment later the surgeon came into the debriefing room, still wearing his surgical gown. He was a thin man with a placid face, probably the best surgeon in all of England, and selected for this job on a need to know basis. At the moment he was dying of curiosity which neither J nor Lord L intended to satisfy. Lord L had tossed a cover over the bloody lance on the table.

"He'll do," the surgeon said. "Do very well, though it will take time. I'd like him kept in the intensive care unit for a week or so. I'll see him every day, of course, but recovery should be routine. Amazing man. Built like an ox and with the constitution of one. Lost nearly all his blood, still survived. Looks like he has been through a meat grinder, though. Old, partly healed wound in the thigh, any number of lesser cuts and abrasions, but it was the damage in the region of the axilla that nearly did for him. Terrible wound. I've seen bayonet wounds like it. Damned near thing, too, for the weapon, whatever it was, stopped just short of the lobar region. Another half inch and - well, no point in discussing that. It didn't happen."

J broke into the machine gun delivery. "So he is going to be all right? Recover? As good as new?"

Bates-Denby smiled. "Outlive us all."

Lord L said, "Thank you, doctor. We're very grateful."

The surgeon understood the dismissal, but lingered. He looked wistful. "I don't suppose you chaps are going to tell me anything? I am a bit curious about the weapon, you know. Terrible wound. Ripped out a good two or three pounds of flesh."

They gazed at him in silence. Bates-Denby shook his head. "No? I didn't suppose so, really. Well then, cheerio. I'll be on my way - got a thing at Barts in half an hour."

At the door the surgeon turned back a moment. "Oh, yes. He did say a funny thing just as he went under. Thought it might mean something to you chaps."

J and Lord Leighton said it in unison: "What did he say?"

Bates-Denby shook his head. "Made no sense at all to me, naturally. He said. 'Maybe the Russian was right.'"

They waited. The surgeon shrugged his shoulders.

J said, "That was all?"

"That was all. Just that - 'Maybe the Russian was right.'"

When the surgeon had gone J and Lord Leighton stared at each other. Lord L spoke first. "So he found your man, J. And must have killed him. Now you can rest a little easier. Sleep better tonight."

J didn't, of course. He rolled and tossed all night long.

"Maybe the Russian was right."

What could Blade have meant?