"Cadel! Where have you
been?
" exclaimed Gazo, when they met in front of seminar-room four. "You had me worried!"
"I was sick," said Cadel. He looked around. There was no one else in sight.
"Good job you came," Gazo went on, jigging from padded foot to padded foot as if he needed to empty his bladder. "Abraham wants to see you. He's in the hospital. Royal Prince Alfred."
"Huh?"
"He rang me at the dorm. From the hospital. He's real sick. He didn't know your number."
"He wants to see
me?
"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Dunno"
Cadel found it hard to concentrate on this particular piece of news. He had to force himself to stop thinking about Sonja and the Piggotts.
"That's not all," Gazo continued, with an air of importance. "Did you hear about Kunio?"
"Kunio?"
"He killed himself."
Cadel stared.
"Committed hara-kiri. Or whatever it's called," Gazo explained. "Happened on the weekend."
"Why?" asked Cadel dully. So much had been thrown at him recently that he found it difficult to absorb this latest shock. "I mean, why did he do it?"
"Dunno." Gazo didn't seem to know anything much.
Cadel surveyed the corridor again. It was empty. "So we're the last ones in the class," he said. "Is that right?"
"Yeah." Gazo paused, studying Cadel with obvious concern. "
You're
feeling all right, aren't you? I mean, you're not
really
sick."
"No. I'm fine."
"You always look so pale, it's hard to tell."
Then Art arrived and the lesson began. It was an interesting one, about forging seventeenth- and eighteenth-century documents. Art showed them how to burn a piece of eighteenth-century leather to extract its tannic acid for ink that would date correctly. He lectured them on the characteristics of antique paper, explaining that blank sheets could be torn from the ends of old books. He demonstrated how a certain fungus could be chemically applied to this paper to create the yellow stains found on aged documents. Finally, he placed a forged document in a glass chamber and charged the air inside it with an electric spark. This spark generated ozone, which bleached and oxidized the new ink, making it appear old.
He also encouraged them to practice their copperplate.
"All this kind of thing is pointless unless you can reproduce the handwriting correctly," he declared. "And even then, you won't convince anyone unless you get the spelling and syntax right. I once saw a forgery of a nineteenth-century letter in which the forger had used the word
scatty.
That word wasn't invented until 1911."
He made no comment about the reduced size of his class.
For homework, different kinds of handwriting were given to Cadel and Gazo to copy with different kinds of nibs. The two were then dismissed. Gazo followed Cadel out into the sunshine.
"When are you going to visit Abraham?" Gazo inquired. "He said it was urgent."
Cadel sighed. "I don't know. I've got a lot to do."
"When's your next class?"
"Uh—tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Gazo seemed surprised. "Then why don't you go today?"
Exasperated, Cadel turned on his companion. "Why don't
you
?" he snapped, and Gazo slumped.
"I would, if I was allowed. I'd afta take off me suit. They don't like it when I wear this suit off campus—not unless I'm in a car."
"Oh. Right." Cadel was abashed. He had forgotten about the suit. It no longer looked strange to him. "Sorry."
There was a brief silence. Cadel didn't feel energetic enough to send Gazo packing. He was suddenly overcome by a desire to sit in the sun with his eyes shut.
"We could take Abraham's car," Gazo finally suggested, in hesitant tones. When Cadel gazed at him in surprise, he added: "It's still here. In the lot. He got sick in the labs and called an ambulance. A
real
ambulance. So his car's still here."
Cadel thought about this.
"Terry mustn't have been pleased," he observed. "About the ambulance."
Gazo shrugged. Cadel checked the time. Ten past eleven. It would be three hours before he could be sure that all the teachers were out of a certain Crampton staff room. And until then...?
Until then, he had nowhere to go except Hardware Heaven.
"Do you have the keys?" he asked Gazo. "The keys to the car?"
Gazo grinned. It was the first grin that Cadel had seen behind that plastic mask for a long time.
"What do you fink I've been doing at Yarramundi since I started?" Gazo said. "You fink I can't hot-wire a car by now?"
"Oh. Right," said Cadel. "Sorry."
"I can drive one, too," Gazo added. "Trouble is—I mean, I dunno if I can drive wiv a helmet on. And if I take it off, well, it's a big risk. For you."
Cadel considered this. He had no idea how bad Gazo's stench was, but it had to be pretty dangerous or Dr. Darkkon wouldn't have been interested in him.
"You're right," Cadel conceded. "It would be a risk. Maybe I'll skip it for now."
"But you should still go." Gazo's tone became suddenly urgent. "He's
real
sick, Cadel. Know what I mean? If you don't go now, you might not get the chance."
"Really?"
"Really," said Gazo in a solemn voice. "Bleeding from every pore, I'eard."
Cadel shuddered. He didn't relish the prospect of seeing
that.
"He wants to talk to you. No one else. Just you," Gazo pointed out. "Maybe he's got a will or somefink."
"Oh hell," Cadel groaned. "I suppose I'd better. It might be important." (To him, as well as to Abraham.) "I guess I'll call a cab. Do you want me to tell him anything? From you?"
"Just that I woulda come if ... well, you know."
"I know."
"He don't like me, anyway," Gazo concluded, with his usual air of resignation. Cadel left him there, standing alone in the sunshine. On reflection it was better not to risk Gazo's driving. Cadel was positive that Gazo didn't have a license, let alone a firm grasp of the Australian road rules. And Abraham might not appreciate anyone hot-wiring his car.
Because it wasn't rush hour, Cadel's trip to the hospital took only about twenty minutes. When he arrived, however, he spent a good deal of time trying to locate Abraham Coggins. First he went to the wrong desk. Then he waited in the wrong line. Then he went to the wrong department, where he had to wait some more, until a busy nurse's aide had checked a computer. (He could have done it twice as fast himself, but smothered his impatience.) At last he was directed to the Intensive Care Unit, where he was questioned vigorously by one of its staff.
After that he was forced to wait another half hour for a doctor, who came and sat down opposite him with a clipboard and wanted to know why he had come.
"I'm a friend of Abraham's," Cadel replied, trying not to lose his temper. "He wanted me to come."
"He made a phone call," the doctor said. "Was that to you?"
"To my friend." Cadel paused for an instant, before deciding that "friend" wasn't a bad way of describing Gazo. "My friend told me."
"You're the first visitor Abraham's had. He's very sick. Did you know that?"
"Well—yeah. He's here, isn't he?"
"How old are you, Cadel?"
"Fourteen."
"Your parents didn't come with you?"
"They're at work."
"Do they know you're not at school?"
"Yes," Cadel replied, with candid, wide-eyed confidence. "They definitely know I'm not at school."
"Well ... all right." Obviously disarmed by Cadel's innocent manner, the doctor moved on to another topic. "As I told you, Abraham is very sick. And we don't really know what's wrong with him. He has a lot of nasty symptoms, but nothing that adds up to a recognizable syndrome. We're still running tests. Can you help us at all?"
Cadel stared, with the air of someone who might at any moment stick a thumb in his mouth. Then he shook his head slowly.
"No," he said.
"Have you known him very long?"
"No."
"Do you know why he wanted you to come?"
Again, Cadel shook his head by way of reply.
"His housemates have informed us that he's a medical student, doing some sort of research. Is that right?"
"I think so." Cadel didn't want to be too definite.
"Do you know if he's been researching any kind of toxic microorganism? Anything like that?"
"No. I mean—I don't know. He doesn't talk about that stuff."
The doctor sighed and scribbled something down.
"All right," he said. "We're trying to get hold of his supervisor at the moment, though we're not having much luck. Meanwhile, I have to warn you, we're not even sure if he's contagious, so he's in an isolation unit. Which means that you might find it hard to talk."
"Oh."
"You can see him, but he's behind glass. Only authorized personnel are allowed in there."
It occurred to Cadel that Abraham must be causing quite a stir in the medical community. Thaddeus didn't like it when Axis students attracted that kind of attention. It was possible that the Fuhrer might be called in to sort things out.
Cadel realized that he should have checked the institute network before visiting Abraham.
"Is there some kind of intercom?" he inquired.
"Pardon me?"
"Some kind of intercom. Like an internal phone system, or something. That Abraham and I could use."
"Oh." The doctor looked faintly surprised. "Well—um—I suppose we could arrange something. Though he's not very well, Cadel. I doubt he'll be able to talk. He hasn't been able to talk to
us.
"
The doctor was wrong, however. Abraham could talk. But he would only risk doing so after Cadel had been left alone outside the isolation unit, with strict instructions that he wasn't to stir from the spot in which he had been placed. All he could do was lean against the window, staring through it at a figure on a high white bed.
The figure lay very still, hooked up to at least three humming machines, as well as two suspended plastic bags. He didn't look well. His face was a very peculiar color: sort of bluish, with dark gray patches, and puffier than usual. He was still as bald as an egg.
Cadel watched the doctor place a gentle hand on Abraham's shoulder, while a masked nurse hovered in the background. There was no response. The doctor studied two of the machines closely, exchanged a few quiet words with the nurse, then left the room, stethoscope swinging. On his way out the door, he stopped beside Cadel. "If he does wake up while you're here, we might see if you can get him to talk," the doctor said. "We really need to know what this disease might be, and he might have some idea, since he's a medical student."
Cadel nodded. For the next ten minutes, he stood with his nose pressed against the glass as the masked nurse busied herself around Abraham's bed, changing plastic bags, scribbling on his chart, adjusting his position. Finally, she, too, left the room.
"I'll be back in a few minutes," she told Cadel, her voice muffled by her mask. "Don't go in there. All right?"
"All right."
"Good boy."
She bustled down the corridor, pulling off her latex gloves, her rubber soles slapping crisply against the linoleum. At last she turned a corner and disappeared.
Almost immediately, one of Abraham's eyes flicked open. The whites were blood-colored. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head. Then he crooked one bony finger, beckoning to Cadel.
Cadel looked around. There were some white-clad figures in the distance, but they weren't paying him any attention.
He turned back to the window.
I can't,
he mouthed, shaking his head.
They won't let me.
Abraham beckoned again—more urgently this time. Cadel decided to go in. If he didn't, the whole trip would have been a waste of time. Besides, what could the doctors actually do to him? Have him arrested?
After casting another quick glance up and down the corridor, he sidled into Abraham's glass box.
"I'm not allowed in here," he said, wrinkling his nose at the smell of disinfectant. "So you'd better make it fast."
"Cadel?"
"I'm here. What is it?"
"Cadel..." Abraham was hoarse. His mouth flapped vaguely. Frowning, Cadel wondered if he was feverish.
"This is Terry's fault," Abraham suddenly rasped. "He's got the vial. Did you know that? I saw him pick it up, that day in the labs. When Carla collapsed. I told the Fuhrer when he questioned me. I had to." The weak voice suddenly cracked. "It wasn't my fault! I had to!"
"Shh—"
"So now this is Terry's revenge. He's made me sick, I know it. He emptied the vial into my coffee."
"Abraham, you were sick before." Cadel glanced behind him, through the glass, but saw no medical staff approaching. "Don't you remember?"
Abraham, however, didn't seem to hear.
"I might die!" he croaked, a thin trickle of blood running from his nose, down the side of his jaw. "I might die if Terry doesn't help me. That's why I want you to go to my house. My room. There's a key in there: the key to a post-office box. I want you to hide that key, then tell Terry this: If he doesn't bring me the cure, I'll tell everyone what's written on the paper in that post-office box. I'll tell the Fiihrer! I'll tell Dr. Roth." A feeble cough. "Or you will, if I ... if I..." The breathless ranting trailed away.
"Well, all right," said Cadel. It sounded crazy to him, but he had to humor the poor fellow. Upsetting a sick man wouldn't help anyone. "I guess I could do that, as long as you don't expect me to talk to Terry myself. I mean, I could leave a letter. A computer printout."
"The key's taped to the inside back cover of my
Principles of Internal Medicine,
" Abraham went on, as if he hadn't heard Cadel. "There's a spare key to the house on top of the fuse box. You've got to go
now.
Quickly. Before it's too late."
"Abraham—"
"The post-office box is number twenty-three at—oh god—at Strathfield. Twenty-three." The trickle of blood was now more like a stream, pooling darkly on the white sheets. "You're the only one I can trust. The only one. You asked me how I was feeling..."