They were a sick lot when he awoke an hour later.
In the dark upstairs, cluttered with boxes and cans Mrs. Goudeket was saying: "The water, it seeped into the gas tanks underground, it must be. The gas floated up and all around us on top of the water. God be thanked, nobody lit a match and the fire was out. As it was we were almost poisoned in our sleep, thanks to that Arab." There was hatred in her voice, fifteen centuries of it.
Burgess Starkman's voice emerged from an attack of coughing. "He's dead, Mrs. Goudeket. You shouldn't—" He broke into coughing again.
Mickey Groff grunted, trying to talk. It was important to clear that up. His head was pounding, but Mrs. Goudeket didn't understand. "He was a Syrian," he croaked. "A civilized Christian people."
"Mr. Groff!" said Mrs. Goudeket. "You're better! We were afraid—You're a hero, Mr. Groff. You saved our lives. Except—"
"Zehedi?" he asked.
He knew that she was nodding in the darkness, just as he knew that she was bitterly ashamed of her outburst. "Too late," she sighed. "Ai, too late. Dick went down with the handkerchief around his mouth and pulled him up the stairs. His heart was going, and then it wasn't. Maybe fifteen minutes. Too late."
A plump arm slid around him and Sharon Froman's voice said in his ear, "Try to sit up. We all felt better after we sat up." She supported his back and eased his trunk upright; he thought his head would explode. He leaned against her dizzily and felt her cool palm against his forehead. "Better," he grunted. "Thanks."
The burgess's old voice said abruptly, "Sing a psalm for Sam Zehedi, the sad Syrian. Bess? Bess?"
"He's wandering," Sharon said very softly to Mickey Groff. "He won't sleep."