K., set of face, stayed with him to the end. The boy did not know he was going. He roused from the coma and smiled up at Le Moyne.
“I've got a hunch that I can move my right foot,” he said. “Look and see.”
K. lifted the light covering.
“You're right, old man. It's moving.”
“Brake foot, clutch foot,” said Johnny, and closed his eyes again.
K. had forbidden the white screens, that outward symbol of death. Time enough for them later. So the ward had no suspicion, nor had the boy.
The ward passed in review. It was Sunday, and from the chapel far below came the faint singing of a hymn. When Johnny spoke again he did not open his eyes.
“You're some operator, Mr. Le Moyne. I'll put in a word for you whenever I get a chance.”
“Yes, put in a word for me,” said K. huskily.
He felt that Johnny would be a good mediator—that whatever he, K., had done of omission or commission, Johnny's voice before the Tribunal would count.