Go on, get sick. Curl up and die. ‘All right,’ he whispered.
Might as well. What’s the difference anyway? Die or get killed, who cares?
Not Janie.
He closed his eyes and saw a mouth. He thought it was Janie’s, but the chin was too pointed. The mouth said, ‘ Just lie down and die, that ’ s all, ’ and smiled. The smile made light glance off the thick glasses which must mean he was seeing the whole face. And then there was a pain so sharp and Swift that he threw up his head and grunted. His hand, his hand was cut. He looked down at it, saw the scars which had made the sudden, restimulative pain. ‘Thompson, I’m gonna kill that Thompson.’
Who was Thompson who was Bromfield who was the half-wit in the cave… cave, where is the cave where the children… children… no, it was children ’ s… where the children’s… clothes, that’s it! Clothes, old, torn, rags; but that’s how he…
Janie… You will be killed. Just lie down and die.
His eyeballs rolled up, his tensions left him in a creeping lethargy. It was not a good thing but it was more welcome than feeling. Someone said, ‘Up forty or better on your right quadrant, corp’r’l, or the pixies’ll degauss your fuses.’ Who said that?
He, Hip Barrows. He said it.
Who’d he say it to?
Janie with her clever hand on the ack-ack prototype.