Corbie miscalculated. He forgot that others beside Case were
interested in his fate.
When he failed to show for work various places, people came
looking for him. They pounded on doors, tapped on windows, and got
no response. One tried the door. It was locked. Now there was
genuine concern.
Some argued for kicking a break-in up the chain of command,
others for moving now. The latter view prevailed. They broke the
lock and spread out inside.
They found a place obsessive in its neatness, spartan in its
furnishings. The first man upstairs yelped, “Here he is.
He’s had a stroke or something.”
The pack crowded into the little upstairs room. Corbie sat at a
table on which lay an oilskin packet and a book. “A
book!” someone said. “He was weirder than we
thought.”
A man touched Corbie’s throat, felt a feeble pulse, noted
that Corbie was taking shallow breaths spaced far more widely than
those of a man sleeping. “Guess he did have a stroke. Like he
was sitting here reading and it hit him.”
“Had an uncle went like that,” someone said.
“When I was a kid. Telling us a story and just went white and
keeled over.”
“He’s still alive. We better do something. Maybe
he’ll be all right.”
A big rush downstairs, men tumbling over men.
Case heard when the group rushed into headquarters. He was on
duty. The news put him in a quandary. He had promised
Corbie . . . But he could not run off.
Sweet’s personal interest got the news bucked up the
ladder fast. The Colonel came out of his office. He noted Case
looking stricken. “You heard. Come along. Let’s have a
look. You men. Find the barber. Find the vet.”
Made you reflect on the value of men when the army provided a
vet but not a physician.
The day had begun auspiciously, with a clear sky. That was rare.
Now it was cloudy. A few raindrops fell, spotting the wooden walks.
As Case followed Sweet, and a dozen men followed him, he barely
noted the Colonel’s remarks about necessary improvements.
A crowd surrounded Corbie’s place. “Bad news travels
fast,” Case said. “Sir.”
“Doesn’t it? Make a hole here, men. Coming
through.” He paused inside. “He always this
tidy?”
“Yes, sir. He was obsessive about order and doing things
by the numbers.”
“I wondered. He stretched the rules a bit with his night
walks.”
Case gnawed his lip and wondered if he ought to give the Colonel
Corbie’s message. He decided it was not yet time.
“Upstairs?” the Colonel asked one of the men who had
found Corbie.
“Yes, sir.”
Case was up the stairs already. He spied Corbie’s oilskin
packet, without thinking started to slide it inside his jacket.
“Son.”
Case turned. Sweet stood in the doorway, frowning.
“What are you doing?”
The Colonel was the most intimidating figure Case could imagine.
More so than his father, who had been a harsh and exacting man. He
did not know how to respond. He stood there shaking.
The Colonel extended a hand. Case handed the packet over.
“What were you doing, son?”
“Uh . . .
Sir . . . One
day . . . ”
“Well?” Sweet examined Corbie without touching him.
“Well? Out with it.”
“He asked me to deliver a letter for him if anything
happened to him. Like he thought his time was running out.
He said it would be in an oilskin packet. On account of the rain
and everything. Sir.”
“I see.” The Colonel slipped fingers under
Corbie’s chin, lifted. He returned the packet to the table,
peeled back one of Corbie’s eyelids. The pupil revealed was a
pinprick. “Hmm.” He felt Corbie’s forehead.
“Hmm.” He flicked several reflex points with his finger
or fist. Corbie did not respond. “Curious. Doesn’t look
like a stroke.”
“What else could it be, sir?”
Colonel Sweet straightened. “Maybe you’d know better
than I.”
“Sir?”
“You say Corbie expected something.”
“Not exactly. He was afraid something would happen. Talked
like he was getting old and his time was running out. Maybe he had
something wrong he never told nobody about.”
“Maybe. Ah. Holts.” The horse doctor had arrived. He
followed the course the Colonel had, straightened, shrugged.
“Beyond me, Colonel.”
“We’d better move him where we can keep an eye on
him. Your job, son,” he told Case. “If he doesn’t
come out of it soon, we’ll have to force-feed him.” He
poked around the room, checked the titles of the dozen or so books.
“A learned man, Corbie. I thought so. A study in contrasts.
I’ve often wondered what he really was.”
Case was nervous for Corbie now. “Sir, I think that way
back he was somebody in one of the Jewel Cities, but his luck
turned and he joined the army.”
“We’ll talk about it after we move him. Come
along.”
Case followed. The Colonel seemed very thoughtful. Maybe he
should give him Corbie’s message.
Corbie miscalculated. He forgot that others beside Case were
interested in his fate.
When he failed to show for work various places, people came
looking for him. They pounded on doors, tapped on windows, and got
no response. One tried the door. It was locked. Now there was
genuine concern.
Some argued for kicking a break-in up the chain of command,
others for moving now. The latter view prevailed. They broke the
lock and spread out inside.
They found a place obsessive in its neatness, spartan in its
furnishings. The first man upstairs yelped, “Here he is.
He’s had a stroke or something.”
The pack crowded into the little upstairs room. Corbie sat at a
table on which lay an oilskin packet and a book. “A
book!” someone said. “He was weirder than we
thought.”
A man touched Corbie’s throat, felt a feeble pulse, noted
that Corbie was taking shallow breaths spaced far more widely than
those of a man sleeping. “Guess he did have a stroke. Like he
was sitting here reading and it hit him.”
“Had an uncle went like that,” someone said.
“When I was a kid. Telling us a story and just went white and
keeled over.”
“He’s still alive. We better do something. Maybe
he’ll be all right.”
A big rush downstairs, men tumbling over men.
Case heard when the group rushed into headquarters. He was on
duty. The news put him in a quandary. He had promised
Corbie . . . But he could not run off.
Sweet’s personal interest got the news bucked up the
ladder fast. The Colonel came out of his office. He noted Case
looking stricken. “You heard. Come along. Let’s have a
look. You men. Find the barber. Find the vet.”
Made you reflect on the value of men when the army provided a
vet but not a physician.
The day had begun auspiciously, with a clear sky. That was rare.
Now it was cloudy. A few raindrops fell, spotting the wooden walks.
As Case followed Sweet, and a dozen men followed him, he barely
noted the Colonel’s remarks about necessary improvements.
A crowd surrounded Corbie’s place. “Bad news travels
fast,” Case said. “Sir.”
“Doesn’t it? Make a hole here, men. Coming
through.” He paused inside. “He always this
tidy?”
“Yes, sir. He was obsessive about order and doing things
by the numbers.”
“I wondered. He stretched the rules a bit with his night
walks.”
Case gnawed his lip and wondered if he ought to give the Colonel
Corbie’s message. He decided it was not yet time.
“Upstairs?” the Colonel asked one of the men who had
found Corbie.
“Yes, sir.”
Case was up the stairs already. He spied Corbie’s oilskin
packet, without thinking started to slide it inside his jacket.
“Son.”
Case turned. Sweet stood in the doorway, frowning.
“What are you doing?”
The Colonel was the most intimidating figure Case could imagine.
More so than his father, who had been a harsh and exacting man. He
did not know how to respond. He stood there shaking.
The Colonel extended a hand. Case handed the packet over.
“What were you doing, son?”
“Uh . . .
Sir . . . One
day . . . ”
“Well?” Sweet examined Corbie without touching him.
“Well? Out with it.”
“He asked me to deliver a letter for him if anything
happened to him. Like he thought his time was running out.
He said it would be in an oilskin packet. On account of the rain
and everything. Sir.”
“I see.” The Colonel slipped fingers under
Corbie’s chin, lifted. He returned the packet to the table,
peeled back one of Corbie’s eyelids. The pupil revealed was a
pinprick. “Hmm.” He felt Corbie’s forehead.
“Hmm.” He flicked several reflex points with his finger
or fist. Corbie did not respond. “Curious. Doesn’t look
like a stroke.”
“What else could it be, sir?”
Colonel Sweet straightened. “Maybe you’d know better
than I.”
“Sir?”
“You say Corbie expected something.”
“Not exactly. He was afraid something would happen. Talked
like he was getting old and his time was running out. Maybe he had
something wrong he never told nobody about.”
“Maybe. Ah. Holts.” The horse doctor had arrived. He
followed the course the Colonel had, straightened, shrugged.
“Beyond me, Colonel.”
“We’d better move him where we can keep an eye on
him. Your job, son,” he told Case. “If he doesn’t
come out of it soon, we’ll have to force-feed him.” He
poked around the room, checked the titles of the dozen or so books.
“A learned man, Corbie. I thought so. A study in contrasts.
I’ve often wondered what he really was.”
Case was nervous for Corbie now. “Sir, I think that way
back he was somebody in one of the Jewel Cities, but his luck
turned and he joined the army.”
“We’ll talk about it after we move him. Come
along.”
Case followed. The Colonel seemed very thoughtful. Maybe he
should give him Corbie’s message.