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shades of yellow hue with purple patches. Mucused.
"Hum," he said speculatively and leaned back and played with his fingers,
making a steeple and looking away from the wound to the steeple. "Well," he
said at length, "we have three alternatives." He got up and began pacing,
stoop-shouldered, and then said monotonously, as though delivering a lecture,
"The wound has now taken on other attributes. Clostridial myositis. Or, to put
it more simply, the wound is gangrenous. Gas gangrenous. I can lay open the
wound and excise the infected tissue, but I don't think that will do, for the
infection is deep. So I would have to take out part of the forearm muscles and
then the hand won't be of use anyway. The best solution would be to amputate
"
"What!"
"Assuredly." Dr. Kennedy was not talking to a patient, he was only giving a
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lecture in the sterile classroom of his mind. "I propose a high guillotine
amputation. Immediately. Then perhaps we can save the elbow joint "
Peter Marlowe burst out desperately, "It's just a flesh wound. There's
nothing wrong with it, it's just a flesh wound!"
The fear of his voice brought Dr. Kennedy back, and he looked at the white
face a moment. "It is a flesh wound, but very deep. And you've got toxemia.
Look, my boy, it's quite simple. If I had serum I could give it to you, but I
haven't got any. If I had sulfonamides I could put them on the wound, but I
haven't got any. The only thing I can do is amputate "
"You must be out of your mind!" Peter Marlowe shouted at him. "You talk about
amputating my arm when I've only got a flesh wound."
The doctor's hand snaked out and Peter Marlowe shrieked as the fingers held
his arm far above the wound.
"There, you see! That's notjust a flesh wound. You've toxemia and it'll
spread up your arm and into your system. If you want to live we'll have to cut
it off. At least it'll save your life!"
"You're not cutting off my arm!"
"Please yourself. It's that or " The doctor stopped and sat down wearily. "I
suppose it is your privilege if you want to die. Can't say I blame you. But my
God, boy, don't you realize what I'm trying to tell you? Youwill die if
wedon't amputate."
"You're not going to touch me!" Peter Marlowe's lips were drawn from his
teeth and he knew he'd kill the doctor if he touched him again. "You're out of
your mind!" he shouted. "It's a flesh wound."
"All right. Don't believe me. We'll ask another doctor." Kennedy called
another doctor and he confirmed the diagnosis and Peter Marlowe knew that the
nightmare was not a dream. He did have gangrene. Oh my God! The fear washed
his strength away. He listened, terrified. They explained that the gangrene
was caused by bacilli multiplying deep down in his arm, breeding death, right
now. His arm was a cancerous thing. It had to be cut off. Cut off to the
elbow. It had to be cut off soon or the entire arm would have to be removed.
But he wasn't to worry. It wouldn't hurt. They had plenty of ether now not
like in the old days.
And then Peter Marlowe was outside the hospital, his arm still on him
bacilli breeding tied with a clean bandage, and he was groping his way down
the hill, for he had told them, the doctors, that he would have to think this
over .. Think what over? What was there to think? He found himself outside the
American hut and he saw that the King was alone in the hut and all was
prepared for Shagata's coming if he came that night.
"Jesus, what's with you, Peter?" The King listened, his dismay growing as the
story spilled out.
"Christ!" He stared at the arm, which rested on the table.
"I swear to God I'd rather die than live a cripple. I swear to God!" Peter
Marlowe looked up at the King, pathetic, unguarded, and out of his eyes came a
scream:Help, help, for the love of God, help!
And the King thought, Holy Cow, what would I do if I was Peter and that was
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